


A Study In Ludus

by dramatisecho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Deception, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Rejection, Romance, Secret Relationship, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unilock, dubcon, professor/student, wager
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatisecho/pseuds/dramatisecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>University AU - The University of London certainly wasn't the first choice for Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty, but it's central location provided them with the opportunity to get their feet wet in a city that would soon be at the mercy and awe of their genius. Unfortunately, school itself is incredibly dull. So to fend off their boredom, Sherlock is challenged by Jim to seduce his new Professor, John Watson. Sherlock accepts, and is calculating and manipulative at first - but begins to rethink their wager when he starts to develop unfamiliar (and frighteningly sentimental) feelings towards the other man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

 

Professor Watson. SH

Yes? Hello? JW

Who is this? JW

Sherlock Holmes. SH

…Mister Holmes, how did you get my personal mobile number? JW

Irrelevant. SH

Nope. Very relevant. JW

You never answered my question. SH

And what question was that? JW

Whether you would accompany me to dinner. SH

…Mister Holmes, I thought I made myself perfectly clear. JW

While I’m flattered by your apparent… er… ‘interest’, it’s against the rules. JW

Christ, I’m almost _ten_ years older than you are. JW

You’re nine. SH

_Still_ , I’m also your Professor. And you're my student, and these things are just not done. JW

I understand there is a considerable amount of risk, but I have no friends to speak of. SH

Therefore, no one to tell nor brag to about any sort of romantic entanglement. SH

It’s not appropriate. JW

Does my personality somehow lead you to believe that my biggest concern is what’s _appropriate_? SH

Well. You’ve a point there. JW

So. Dinner? SH

No, Mister Holmes. JW

Sherlock. SH

Look, you’re a brilliant young man… if not a bit prickly in your demeanour. JW

I’m sure if you’re looking for a relationship, you can quite easily find someone your own age. JW

The ‘someones’ of my age majority are spectacularly idiotic and dull. You must be aware of this – you try to instruct them on a weekly basis. SH

I’ve no interest in them. I have an interest in _you_. SH

You are marginally more intelligent than most of the other professors at this institution. And considerably _less_ dull. If my deductions are correct. SH

Your deductions? JW

Yes. SH

Shall I talk about your strained relationship with your older sibling, or the fact that you limp occasionally when you’re giving a lecture? SH

You… JW

I don’t limp that often. JW

No, not often. SH

Teaching seems to distract you from thinking about it. But the number of times you attempt to rub away the ache in your shoulder is also indication enough – paired with your more formal stance when at the front of the lecture hall, your haircut, the way you carry yourself and address disrupting students – that you recently returned from military service. I assume you damaged your shoulder, perhaps _shot_ and discharged even, as that ache seems real enough. But the limp is purely psychosomatic and not nearly as consistent. SH

[no reply]

Dinner then? SH

How did you know all that? JW

Who have you been speaking to? JW

I didn’t know, I _saw._ SH

Deduction, Professor Watson, is a very useful skill. SH

Everyone is capable of it, though certainly not to _my_ degree. SH

…Mister Holmes, please don’t text me anymore. JW

I can be incredibly persistent, Professor Watson. SH

Why me? JW

As I said. You intrigue me greatly. SH

I want to know more about your past and what makes you ‘you’ in a matter of speaking. SH

Much to my chagrin, I cannot possibly deduce _everything_ about you. SH

But I want to know what makes a man like you appear so defeated. SH

Are you haunted by the war, or do you miss it? SH

Why resort to teaching in the Biomedical Sciences? A Immunology and Infection course specifically? SH

Why are you populated by friends and colleagues who speak very highly of you… but retain an air of loneliness and loss of direction? SH

[no reply]

So. Dinner? SH

…Why are you doing this to me? JW

I’d have thought that was rather obvious. SH

I like you. SH

[no reply]

Dinner. SH

…Alright. JW

Good. SH

There’s a small Italian restaurant, just off Northumberland Street. Angelo’s. SH

Tomorrow evening. Nine o’clock. SH

Just dinner. JW

We’re going to talk, and that’s all Mister Holmes. JW

Sherlock. SH

Sherlock. JW

I’ll see you then, John. SH

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The origin post on Tumblr: http://dramatis-echo.tumblr.com/post/30971652685/dramatis-echo-au-professor-john-and
> 
> Types of Love: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_styles


	2. Not A Date

 

 

Nine o’clock.

And despite the copious internal arguments; all the reasons why he _shouldn’t_ indulge his student for one single moment… John showed up at the restaurant. He tried to justify that it was _just_ curiosity. Sherlock Holmes was a fascinating young man at the age of nineteen, and the fact that (for some reason) he’d latched onto John and deemed him worthy of his attention was a bit thrilling, truth be told. He kept his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat as he leaned forward to peer into the warmly lit window of the quaint little eatery. It looked nice enough.

Of course that didn’t really make this little rendezvous any better. He was still almost ten years older than Sherlock. And frankly, John didn’t understand why someone younger, more youthful (and more beautiful, if he could be blunt about it) would _want_ to latch onto someone already en route to his thirties.

“Steeling yourself?” A smooth asked from behind him. When John turned, he came face to face with the teen in question. Sherlock Holmes; thin, about the same height as John (he hadn’t had his real growth spurt yet, but seemed to be in the midst of it), and quite pale. But the tone of his skin worked well with his dark, lose curls and piercing blue eyes. One could definitely see he came from a more ‘prestigious’ family. He had on a dark, plum-purple shirt, black skinny jeans, and a long coat that looked a bit big for him, draped over his slender torso.

“…Or were you concerned I was going to stand you up?” Sherlock mused, brushing past John with a small smirk before entering the restaurant.

John smiled a bit uneasily, “Knew you wouldn’t. No one hounds and obsesses for weeks to get a date – and then stands you up.” He stepped back and followed the young man inside to a window seat. John stared at it hesitantly for a few minutes, and then shook his head. “Nope.” he said simply, before heading back further to another unoccupied table – close to the wall. Away from the door.

Sherlock seemed a bit perplexed, but followed, and slid into the seat across from John. “That table is the best one in the establishment. I thought people watching might calm your nerves.”

“Yeah… don’t exactly want ‘people watching’ me with _you_ , do I?” John countered with an unimpressed glare. “This isn’t a date. It’s just a… chat.”

The teen smirked, “If you insist.” Sherlock shrugged off his coat, “But to be perfectly blunt, Professor Watson, I find you utterly fascinating and the fact that you turned up tonight gives me the impression that my fascination is not entirely one-sided.” he pointed out effortlessly.

“My interest in you isn’t fascination, it’s… curiosity.” John clarified. He took a deep breath before getting to the heart of what he _really_ wanted to know. “How did you know about me?… What you said in the text. How did you know?”

There was something a bit mischievous about Sherlock’s smile… and John couldn’t put his finger on why. Perhaps he was a bit unsettled that deep down he knew this nineteen year old was _much_ smarter than him. He’d heard tell of Sherlock’s encounters with many other professors on campus. He had a rather prickly demeanour – he talked back, he was snide, sarcastic, condescending, and quick to call the faults of others out. Apparently he’d once humiliated a History Professor by dragging an unfortunate ‘porn addition’ to light in the middle of a lecture. He was no longer on staff.

“I told you, John. I didn’t know. I saw…” he answered in a smooth voice. “The way you hold yourself says military; your hair is only just beginning to grow longer from the regulation cuts. Your phantom limp is painful when you’re troubled or stressed, and only seems to occur during your lectures if you’ve had a bad day or a student is giving you a particularly rough time. Otherwise, you stand as if you’ve forgotten it. Your shoulder is another matter. You wore a white dress shirt a few months ago. From where I was sitting, the light struck the material at a perfect angle, making the fabric somewhat transparent. It’s a large scar, entry wound, but no exit judging from the bulge of the healed tissue. So a legitimate ache then.” Sherlock rambled off smoothly, slouching back in his seat.

John’s posture was stiff, but he didn’t seem angry. Just guarded. He pursed his lips in thought before speaking again, “You said before that I had a strained relationship with my older sibling.” he recalled.

“Bit obvious, that.” The teen mused cheekily, “Having a similar relationship with my _own_ older brother I recognized the signs. Recently back from Afghanistan, or Iraq possibly, and struggling for money. An army pension couldn’t possibly support you in a city like this. With your medical degree, a surgeon or doctor would have been your first choice, but your shoulder inhibits you from working such a skilled practice – and you don’t like the on-call hours. So, you’ve taken a job as a temporary Professor, though you’re hoping they’ll keep you on full time. Why, with so much trouble, have you not gone to your sibling? Possibly a deep-seated rivalry, perhaps the two of you have had a falling out… it’s difficult to say. Either way, you don’t get along, otherwise you would have simply asked for assistance. But you’re a proud man, and would rather suffer quietly than put anyone out. Admirable, but stupid.”

Sherlock was waiting for it. The inevitable: _Piss off_. It was a tried and true reaction whenever he deduced something personal about someone else.

John chose to gape at him for a few minutes before opening his mouth, “That… was incredible.”

With those three words, it was suddenly Sherlock’s turn to look like a deer in headlights.

“…You… think so?”

The professor nodded; a small, uncertain smile growing on his lips. “Yeah. Yes, it was… rather spot on. Well done.” he huffed a quiet, impressed laugh and shook his head. “Blimey. You _are_ a genius, aren’t you?”

The younger male was grateful that Angelo’s restaurant was steeped in ‘mood’ lighting. Sherlock could feel the inklings of a faint blush creeping up into his cheeks; if it were brighter, John certainly would have noticed it against his otherwise pale skin. “Yes. Well.” Sherlock cleared his throat, somewhat thrown off by the unexpected praise,

“Harry and me don’t get on. No question about that.” John admitted, crossing his arms against the table as he leaned in – visibly a bit more relaxed. “But truthfully, I don’t mind teaching. It isn’t all that bad… and it’s a hell of a lot safer than leading a troupe through some war-torn country.”

Sherlock’s icy blue eyes shifted down toward the table…

 

\- - - -

 

“ _I want to do another. I’m boooored.” Jim whined, draped over Sherlock’s bed._

_The other genius was sitting in his desk chair, typing away on his mobile, “It’s repetitive. Therefore dull.” Sherlock murmured, more focused on texting._

_When he and Jim had played this little game before, the Professors or TA’s they had each seduced were rather **lewd** in their desires when it came down to the affair itself. They were all so desperate and seedy, and practically drooling over the fact a student wanted to have a secret, romantic tryst. It was terribly pathetic. _

“ _I want to fuck that Cultural and Historical Geography professor.” Jim sighed dreamily; his large, round dark eyes were surprisingly sharp and focused on Sherlock’s dorm room ceiling, in stark contrast to how relaxed the rest of his body was._

_Sherlock scoffed, “Professor Moran has made several comments, both in his lectures and off campus, that could certainly fall under the category of violent homophobia.” he reminded the Irish teen. “Unless of course, stating that he would sign a petition to ‘drive those faggots out of the country’ was a joke.”_

“ _It will be an amusing challenge then.” Jim purred, rolling onto his stomach and facing Sherlock. “But if **I’m** going to play, **you** have to.”_

_The other paused mid-text for a moment, before continuing, “I’m not in the mood. It’s hardly a challenge anymore.”_

“ _It will be if you try to seduce that sweet little gimpy Biomedical Sciences professor…” the Irish lilted voice countered. “Watson.”_

_John Watson. For some reason, the mere idea of seducing that particular professor gave Sherlock reason to pause. John was… different. Wholesome, even, a bit shy. But he had a strong core; there was something hard lingering behind his eyes. He was worldly and homey at the same time. It intrigued Sherlock to the point that he was actually looking forward to getting into the man’s head mentally, emotionally and physically. Their age difference wouldn’t be an issue. Nine years was not that shocking. It was doable._

“ _Alright.” Sherlock heard himself agreeing while his mind caught up._

“ _Wonderful!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, “I’ll leave you to Watson, then. I’ll get started on Moran. And the first one to succeed has the luxury of not being bored anymore. If only for a short while.”_

“ _Mm.” Sherlock hummed, going back to his mobile, “The usual five hundred pounds, then?”_

_The shorter teen waved him off carelessly, “Yes, yes.”_

 

\- - - -

 

“But you miss it…” Sherlock struck up again, “You _miss_ that adrenaline, that sense of adventure. You must.”

A slightly forlorn glaze seemed to pass over John’s eyes – but before Sherlock could get a real reading from it, the glint was gone. “Maybe a bit. But this is just another chapter in my life. Still young, you know.” he shrugged with a half-hearted smile. “Now I get to embark on the adventure of getting a brilliant young genius to stop pestering me. Your intentions aren’t exactly romantic. More predatory.”

Sherlock frowned, “What do you mean? The atmosphere of this restaurant is what _most_ would consider romantic.”

“Yeah, but your approach isn’t.” John shrugged, sipping from his glass of water. “I mean, you’re not exactly some doe-eyed innocent, are you?”

The dark-haired youngster narrowed his eyes, “Perhaps this is just my strategy. Dazzle you with _intelligence_ rather than innocence.”

“…Shite strategy, mate.” John smirked.

Sherlock couldn’t help but go with the gradual, and surprisingly genuine, smile that spread across his lips. They both shared a quiet chuckle, before Sherlock sat up a bit straighter in his seat. “Hungry?”

“Starving, actually.” The older answered, already perusing through the menu.

The owner of the restaurant came over and greeted them, introducing himself as none other than _the_ Angelo. After placing a candle in the center of the table, he gushed over Sherlock for a moment, and told him to say hello to his ‘lovely parents’. He offered them anything they’d like on the menu free of charge and gestured for the waitress to bring them over a couple of drinks. John was rather impressed by the teen’s apparent ‘clout’, but reminded himself that he was just a typical rich kid. His parents had connections, therefore, _he_ would to. And it also reminded him that Sherlock’s intentions may be a bit more malicious in nature. He needed to keep his guard up. Maybe the wealthy teen just wanted an older playmate…

But he couldn’t make assumptions yet. He _was_ intrigued by Sherlock – despite their divided roles as professor and student.

“Aren’t you going to order anything?” John asked, handing his menu to the waitress when she took his order.

Sherlock shook his head as she departed, “Bit of a loophole…” he beamed cleverly, “This way we aren’t ‘eating’ together, therefore no one can claim it’s a date.”

“It’s _not_ a date.” John restated.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked again, as he lowered his hand to reach across the table – lightly covering John’s in a subtle touch. “The evening isn’t over yet.”

John stared at their hands, and seemed to be having another debate with himself. The genius was close to celebrating the small victory, when something (again) swept through John’s eyes, and he removed his hand. Sherlock’s thumped against the bare table.

“So,” John smiled good-naturedly as if nothing had happened, “Is it true _you_ are the reason Professor Anderson quit?” he asked quietly, just between them, “…Something about a porn addiction?”

Sherlock decided to ignore the loss of his ‘physical contact’ move against John – and indulge him. He had never particularly liked Professor Anderson. So talking about the ex-professor’s sexual demons to John was rather amusing…

 

 

When their dinner was over, the two left Angelo’s talking and giggling like old friends. It was remarkable to John; he’d never expected to let himself befriend someone like Sherlock so quickly. Especially knowing the teen’s motives. Though oddly enough, he felt as if that overbearing ‘date’ vibe he’d gotten earlier (and through the teen’s prior, excessive texts) had vanished. Sherlock also seemed more at ease. He continued to deduce people as they walked down the street – muttering bemusing tells and sometimes outright lies just to see if John would call him out on it. And he did.

The stroll was effortless and relaxed. John could see why people might initially be scared off from befriending Sherlock, and yes, the boy’s attitude left something to be desired. But once he’d pushed past all that and got the lad talking… he really _was_ brilliant. His sarcasm had morphed into dry wit, and he even seemed to smile a bit more.

“John?”

Sherlock’s voice pulled the professor from his thoughts, and he realized they’d come to a stop. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re here.” The younger gestured before tousling a hand through his dark curls.

John frowned and looked over; the confusion falling away as he recognized the area. “…How did you know where I live?”

“I deduced it.” Sherlock puffed up his chest a bit.

“Bullshit.” The professor snorted, “How did you find out?”

Sherlock pouted, making a show of an eye-roll before answering, “Let’s just say it’s a poor choice for the admissions office to hire students to work part-time.” He muttered, slowly looking back toward John, “I can’t be penalized for exploiting the fact that Miss Hooper has a sizable infatuation with me – and doesn’t keep an eye on her computer.”

John sighed. Molly Hooper; he’d met her a few times. Bit mousey, quiet, but very pleasant and eager to please. He almost felt sorry for her… being manipulated so easily by Sherlock.

“Poor girl.”

Sherlock seemed to think all was forgiven with that statement, and started walking up the steps to John’s front door with a grin. “I can come in, then?”

“Nope.” John answered quickly, lifting a hand and stopping Sherlock from getting any closer.

The youngest glared petulantly, “It’s good form to invite one’s date in for tea at the end of the evening.”

“It _wasn’t_ a date.” John groaned, almost exacerbated by the number of times he’d had to repeat that phrase.

Sherlock blinked and lowered his eyes a bit, almost (to John’s surprise) looking a bit unsure of himself. “Did you… not have a good time?” he enquired softly.

“No, I… well I did. It was fun.” John admitted, albeit a bit reluctantly, “I haven’t been invited to dinner in a while. So… that was nice. Yes.” He paused, looking up and down at Sherlock, “But I’m still not convinced. And this is a very dangerous game you’re playing. Let’s just… leave it alone, yeah?” he encouraged.

John briefly considered giving the lad a peck on the cheek for good measure, but ultimately, decided against it. He patted him on the shoulder instead and slid past Sherlock to unlock, and enter, his flat.

It was only when the door closed that Sherlock snapped out of his daze.

That definitely had _not_ gone according to plan.

All the other professors had been wrapped around his little finger by the end of the first evening; practically bursting out of their trousers, panting and salivating. So why hadn’t John? What about him wasn’t working on the ex-army doctor-turned-professor? ‘ _Not my looks_ ,’ Sherlock concluded, ‘ _His pupils dilated three times in the course of the evening when he looked at me._ ’ - They had laughed, exchanged quips at one another, and chatted casually through the meal and during the walk home.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and tugged his long coat tighter around his small frame. This would be more work than he’d anticipated. John Watson was no fool… much to Sherlock’s dismay (but also secret delight). He did love a challenge. Pulling out his mobile, he began to text as he walked:

_I’m terribly upset you didn’t invite me up. SH_

A reply came through in the next two minutes…

_Well, I’m sure there’s a teddy at home you can cuddle. JW_

_His name is John Watson. SH_

_Very funny. JW_

_Tea then. SH_

_Tomorrow. SH_

_We’ll see. JW_

_Goodnight. JW_


	3. A Lesson in Deception

 

 

 

 

John had gone to bed thinking about Sherlock Holmes... and woken _up_ thinking about Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn't good.

After over-sleeping _just_ a tad, John tried to push the teen from his mind as he hastily readied himself for work; gathering his notes, throwing on clothes, and making a mad dash to catch a taxi to campus. Normally he preferred walking, but stewing over _why_ he was doing the exact opposite of what he had _promised_ himself regarding his young admirer had put him behind schedule. He'd even nicked his chin while shaving. It was not shaping up to be the best day for John Watson.

When he finally arrived at the prestigious institution, he went straight to his office to prepare himself for his lecture. He re-adjusted his lopsided tie and straightened his navy blue cardigan over his simple pale button up shirt. After spending a few more minutes carding his fingers through his mousey-blonde hair, John took a few deep breaths and left his office to go straight to his lecture hall. He still felt a bit out of sorts... he _hated_ rushing.

He slipped into the lecture hall, welcomed by the calm buzz of casual chatter, and took a deep breath. He was here, he had made it, _'Breathe'_ he told himself. Of course the first person he happened to lock eyes on was Sherlock Holmes. _'That little shit...'_ he cursed. Holmes had moved from where he normally sat (towards the back and slightly off to the side) to the front row; nearly dead center to where John's desk was. He shot the teen a rather unimpressed glare but Holmes simply returned a cheeky (and most certainly arrogant) smile.

John decided to ignore Sherlock for the duration of his lecture. Luckily it was a big hall, and John was able to focus his eyes up on the students in front of him – and steep himself into the content of his lecture for the morning. Two hours seemed to pass a lot quicker than he would have liked... and soon, everyone was beginning to file out of the room, chattering or texting away on their mobiles. John busied himself answering a few questions after class with some students who needed clarification about certain aspects of the lecture, and thankfully by the time he was done, the hall was empty.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He'd half expected Sherlock to stay behind and ambush him when they were alone.

Maybe his message had gotten through to the teen. He couldn't go around mixing his affairs with students almost ten years younger than him. If anyone found out he could be fired, or Sherlock could be expelled, and John would be right back where he was before: jobless and useless. He gathered up his books again and headed out of the hall – looking forward to a more peaceful day and a much-needed cup of tea. He hadn't been able to have one during his morning rush.

He got caught in the halls a couple times to talk; once to Professor Donovan and once to one of his TA's, before he was finally able to make it back to his office.

“About time.” A smooth voice stated petulantly. John snapped his head over, and was startled to see Sherlock Holmes perched in his chair; long, slender limbs crossed at the ankle atop his desk, and two take-away cups close by. “The tea's nearly gone cold.” Sherlock's icy blue eyes flicked up and down John's torso. “I know you skipped having one this morning. Running late, by the look of you.”

John closed the door (a bit harder than necessary) and tensely made his way over to the desk. “How do you kn-”

“Oh _please_.” Sherlock groaned, slipping his legs down and standing up with a bit of a flourish, “The razor nick on your chin alone implies you were scrambling about this morning. But you're also wearing two completely different socks, and you continued to adjust your tie and cardigan absently in class; you seemed a bit more frazzled than usual. This all, quite _obviously,_ implies you either slept a bit later than you usually do – OR something was on your mind that y-” Sherlock stopped mid sentence, handing John a take-away cup of tea, as a sly grin grew on his lips. “Ah. You were thinking about _me_.”

John scoffed, but the tell-tale signs of a blush crept onto his cheeks, “Cheeky git,” he took the cup, “I wasn't. Just overslept, that's all.” he lied, sipping from the cup gratefully. Of course it was all true; being late, missing tea, _and_ being distracted by Sherlock. “But you were right about everything else,” he continued, “...as strange as I feel admitting it. You know, you should really be using your powers of deduction for good instead of evil.” he teased, sitting down in his vacated chair.

“Ugh. _Good_. Good is boring.” he smiled, gliding over to take a seat across from John's desk. He would ignore the fact that John's blush and diversion away from the topic had been telling enough. “How's the tea?”

John was mid sip when he hummed and nodded, “Spot on. Cheers.” he thanked. He took another quick drink before meeting Sherlock's eyes again, “So. What can I do for you, Mister Holmes? Aside from _overlooking_ the fact you just broke into my office.”

“I'd like to arrange another date.” Sherlock said, ignoring John's sass. “I believe our last one was rather successful. If we continue and average three, perhaps four dates a week, we will be in good shape before the holidays. I understand couples often meet their prospective families on such occasions; I've even made a graph so you can see t-”

“Sherlock for godssake _stop_.” John groaned, holding up a hand. “You're chattering away at a mile a minute, and _clearly_ ignoring what I've told you. This is all completely irrelevant. I _haven't_ agreed to date you. I thought we talked about this...” he sighed, taking another couple sips of tea.

The younger genius huffed and crossed his arms, “Isn't the _point_ of dating to court another? You are focusing on our age difference and our roles at this institution; neither of which should be a basis for romantic dismissal. Clearly you're attracted to me, and I you. We enjoy each others company, I'm intelligent, good looking. Our status as Professor and student should have no bearing. I won't be your student next term anyway, so we might as well jump start our affair.”

“Oh Jesus, don't call it an _affair_.” John hissed, downing the rest of his tea. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt. It felt a bit warmer in here. “Look, Sherlock, I'm really flattered. I am. If this was a different circumstance and... you were... I don't know, a few years older... er, or I was younger. Yes. Maybe we could have had something. But I... um...” the professor began to trail off a bit, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat.

Sherlock quirked a brow, “Everything alright, Professor Watson?”

“Yup, yes. Yes. Fine.” John tried to collect himself. “I'm just... I think it's just all this stress. I really need you to drop it. Nothing is going to come of this. You can go seduce another professor – or do us all a favour – and meet someone closer to your _own_ age. I think it will... ah... it will...” John blinked a few times; his breathing coming out a bit more laboured.

The dark-haired genius was staring at him intently, “...John?”

“I... sorry, I'm... I feel a bit off.” he admitted, shifting again in his seat. John froze suddenly. ' _Oh god...'_ he cursed, _'Why the hell am I getting hard?'_ he panicked, shifting again. A quiet groan escaped past his lips, but he closed them immediately. “L-Look... Sherlock can you... ah, can you come back. Later? Much later?” John stammered, looking back toward the teen.

But to his surprise... Sherlock was smiling. And it wasn't a warm smile. No, it was devious. Like he knew something John didn't.

“W-What?...” he breathed again, growing more irritated as his skin continued to itch, “...Mister Holmes, please. I... you can come back... I'm.... I'm...” he trailed off – noticing Sherlock's smile didn't fade, but grew, as he stood up from the chair and peered down at John from beneath his calculating, sharp eyes. “Sherlock, what-” John stopped immediately. “Jesus...” he whispered, meeting the young man's eyes in disbelief. “...The... tea?” he gaped, “You... did you... you put s-something in the t-”

“ _Finally_. I was hoping you'd catch on.” Sherlock drawled, prowling over around the desk toward John. “It took you a bit _longer_ than I'd anticipated. You're already hard.” He tilted his head.

John opened and closed his mouth a few times in disbelief; frozen. “Y-Y-You... what... what did you do?...” he rushed out.

“Don't be obtuse. An _aphrodisiac_ , John. Well, sort of. More of an experimental chemical concoction... I made it myself. Quite powerful.  You're a medical man, you should be able to recognize the signs.” Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes as he grasped the arm of John's chair. He turned him around, and swooped down to kneel between his Professor's legs. “You're a trusting individual, Professor Watson. Stubborn too. If you'd just accepted my proposal last night, I wouldn't have had to resort to such... measures.”

John let out a rather effeminate (and involuntary) noise from the back of his throat as Sherlock's long, dexterous fingers flew to his belt and began to undo his trousers. “Sh-Sh... Sherlock! Sherlock... stop, you-”

“I what? _Can't_?” he baited, biting his lower lip as he began to rub John's concealed erection through the cotton fabric of his briefs. “I assure you, I most certainly _can_. And want to.” Sherlock purred, finishing John's shaft out finally through the side-slit on his pants. Two fingers circled the base of his cock and the Professor cried out – before quickly biting down on his tongue to quell the sound. God, he felt so sensitive; this aphrodisiac was making his skin tingle. _'Shit shit shit...'_

“As I suspected... you're rather _gifted_ , Professor Watson.” Sherlock hummed appreciatively, “But I like a challenge. I don't believe hands will be necessary.” he smirked, sliding his arms around John's waist to both get himself closer, and hold the Doctor steady in his chair. The dark-haired teen lowered his head and began to lick long, sensual trails up and down John's cock.

“ _Shhhhh_.... shit.... shit, oh god....” John panted, gripping the arms of his chair so hard that he worried they might snap clean off. This couldn't be happening; this was wrong on so many levels, but Jesus Christ, it felt good. He hadn't had a blow job in years – much less one from a nineteen-year old genius who had just drugged him with an aphrodisiac. He tried to resist. He _really_ tried to think of anything and everything he could to will his erection away, or somehow fight the pleasurable drug coursing through his system. But each time he opened his eyes – there was Sherlock Holmes – gazing up at him through those dark, loose locks with that intensely seductive stare... humming appreciatively around John's shaft as he took him completely into his mouth.

John cried out again, only for a second, before one of his hands flew to cover his mouth in the hopes of stopping any more sounds. He panted and writhed on the chair as Sherlock skillfully deep-throated him like his life depended on it; as if John was somehow providing the last, reliable food source on earth. John blubbered and tried to contain his voice behind his hand – while the other had somehow found it's way into Sherlock's hair. He vaguely became aware of Sherlock's arms still around his waist; his hands occupying themselves by un-tucking his shirt, and exploring his back and just below the waist of his trousers while he continued to vigorously bob his head up and down.

It didn't take long for John to cum with the aphrodisiac wreaking havoc on his system. He tried to push Sherlock away – not fancying the idea of releasing himself down the teen's throat – but Sherlock just tightened his arms around John's waist and continued to suck him until he couldn't help but cum. He yelled out (still muffling his scream with his hand) and went boneless in his chair. Sherlock removed his mouth with a slick pop, and made a show of licking his lips and dabbing them at the corner with his index finger.

He tucked John back into his pants and trousers and did them up,while a smug smirk never left his lips. Sherlock crawled up in a mess of gangly limbs and straddled his Professor's lap, “Now... how about returning the favour?” he asked in a sultry tone, “I must confess... the noises and expressions you made caused me to become a bit more aroused than I anticipated.”

If there was something John Watson tried to keep under wraps; if there was one major flaw about him, one bugbear, one faulting characteristic... it would be his temper. And something snapped inside him after listening to Sherlock speak to him in such a way. The excessive texting, the over-confident attitude, breaking into his office, and finally drugging him – all came to the forefront of John's mind. This wasn't a mere crush, it was aggressive infatuation. Snarling, John shoved the teen roughly from his lap. He collapsed back onto the floor, and to John's secret delight, has a look of pure shock on his face.

He'd done something not many had... and that was _surprise_ Sherlock Holmes.

“Get out...” John growled. He stood (albeit, his legs were a tad wobbly), and seemed to overcome his short stature in that moment to _loom_ over Sherlock, who was still sprawled on the floor. The teen was being given a flash; a glimpse of Captain Watson – and internally had to admit the mood wafting through the room was certainly intimidating. “Get _out,_ Holmes!” He roared again. John grabbed Sherlock roughly by the arm and yanked him up, before dragging him toward the door. “If you try _anything_ like that on me again, I swear to God, student or not, I'll give you a bashing you won't soon forget!” he spat venomously.

Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing; he'd never seen John so angry. Hell, there was a time the student would have thought it was _impossible_ for someone as calm and steady as his Professor to lose his temper. But there it was. Sherlock began to panic a bit, “If you throw me out, I won't hasten to concoct a story that involves molestation! Think about it John! I could _ruin_ you over what has just transpired between us!” he argued somewhat desperately.

John paused to slam Sherlock against the nearby wall. The wind briefly left the student as he gazed into the hard, furious eyes of his professor. Intimidated, yes, but also oddly... aroused. ' _What is wrong with me?'_ Sherlock wondered before John spoke,

“Go ahead then, you little twat.” he hissed, “Go ahead and fucking ruin me for trying to remain a good influence... for preferring to befriend you and not fuck you – for being disabled by your stupid aphrodisiac!” John opened his door and shoved Sherlock out into the hall, before slamming it behind him.

Sherlock stumbled into the corridor (thankfully empty, given that another lecture had started), and turned to stare wondrously at John's door. For the first time in years, the young genius felt a small twist in his gut; an uncomfortable twinge that he recognized as guilt. It wasn't an overwhelming sensation... but it was there. And it bothered him.

That had certainly _not_ gone according to plan.

 

 

 

John didn't see or hear from Sherlock the rest of the day.

He finished up two more lectures and went home He made himself a cup of tea, checked and answered a few of his emails, made dinner, had another cuppa, and sat down to read. It had started to pour rain sometime between the time he'd arrived home and when he'd started dinner (for one), but he didn't have to venture outside again for the rest of the evening; John rather enjoyed the rain when he didn't have to be out in it.

He was continuing his routine, staying busy and distracted...

So why was it he couldn't he get Sherlock out of his head? Why did that lad _still_ linger around in the back of his mind?

John decided to believe it was because of the way they'd left things. He hated losing his temper, but damned if Sherlock's behaviour just didn't pull it out of him. He felt guilty for going off on him; telling him he'd give him a right bashing if he tried anything like it again...

But he was still upset. Feeling 'guilty' for yelling at the teen didn't negate the simple fact that Sherlock had spiked his tea with an aphrodisiac and given John a blow job against his will. No matter how great it might have felt... _'or looked... the way he hummed... or the way his tongue and jaw seemed to l-'_ John winced and rubbed his eyes. Fuck.

The buzzer to his flat drew John's attention back to the present and he was grateful for the distraction. Getting up, he walked over to the door and opened it.

The _last_ person he'd expected, or wanted, to see was Sherlock Holmes; soaked to the bone, long coat heavy and drooped with moisture as it clung to his skinny form. His hair was flat against his head, also soaked with the rainfall, and he looked... well... miserable. He reminded John of a wet kitten; upset, irritated, and a bit guilty for being caught out.

“...How long have you been standing out here?” John asked with a sigh.

Sherlock sniffed in sharply and tried to lift his chin a bit, “...Nearly twenty-seven minutes.” he answered. An uncomfortable beat of silence fell between the two. John didn't know what to say, and Sherlock seemed to be having an internal debate with himself, given how his features twitched and he would only hold John's gaze for a few seconds – before dropping it.

“I'm sorry.” Sherlock finally blurted. “Sorry. I... _am_ sorry.” he repeated. “I've handled this badly. You... _confuse_ me.” His voice was a bit tense, and obviously he didn't apologize for much (if anything) too often. And while a simple apology wouldn't be enough for some, while this _should_ have been the moment their ties were severed... John Watson was content with the effort. He prided himself on being a good judge of character; he could (emotionally) read people quite well. And while Sherlock was attempting to put on airs and act more petulant than necessary, John could see the remorse. A glint of embarrassment and guilt in Sherlock's icy blue eyes that overruled any pompous body language.

The fact he looked like near-drowned kitten took away a bit of Sherlock's edge, too.

“Get in here, daftie.” John groaned, motioning for the teen to enter with a small gesture of his head. Sherlock skittered past him and inside while John shut the door behind them. “ _Stay_ there. On the mat. Don't move.” he ordered before Sherlock could go to far. “I don't want everything I own soaked through...”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes as he hung up his soaking coat, before he began waiting impatiently for John to return. When he did, the Professor had a few towels, and some kind of horrid jumper. His displeasure must have shown on his face, because he heard John chuckling. “Go on. Your sense of fashion is going to be the _least_ of your worries if you catch pneumonia.” he muttered, draping one towel over Sherlock's head and handing him the other. The teen grumbled and hurriedly dried himself off while handing the wet items to John to hold. Sherlock pulled off his shirt, and tossed it aside to his teacher before awkwardly pulling on the jumper. John made sure to avert his eyes slightly when he caught a quick glimpse of Sherlock's lean, pale torso.

He walked back into the flat to dispose of the wet items and hang them to dry. Sherlock frowned and looked at himself in a small hall mirror. He looked ridiculous; hair more untamed than usual, and now, an odd looking jumper which was too larger for him in the body, and too short in the sleeves. The whole thing seemed to almost de-age him, and he looked _fifteen_ instead of nineteen. But on the plus side... it was warm, and smelled of John. Unable to help himself, Sherlock ducked his nose down to inhale the scent of the jumper.

When he heard John coming back into the hall, however, Sherlock immediately stopped and stood upright. He tried to be confident, but failed miserably since part of him was waiting for John to send him on his way; or restate, once more, that Sherlock was _not_ to come near him ever again.

Instead, the marvellously unpredictable Professor sighed, and offered the teen a small, defeated smile.

“...Tea?” he asked.

Sherlock returned the smile.


	4. Start from Scratch

 

 

 

“So… I can stay the night, then.” Sherlock nodded when John came into the sitting room with their tea.

But his professor simply shook his head, “You’re not forgiven.”

“I’m n- … _excuse_ me?” the teen looked taken aback. “But you let me _in_. Gave me something dry to wear and offered me _tea_.”

“You’re my student, and you were soaked to the bone, and I didn’t want you to get pneumonia.” John justified, setting a mug in front of Sherlock on the coffee table. “I never said _anything_ about accepting your apology. What you did was horribly wrong… in so _many_ ways, Sherlock. A lot of people would classify it as rape.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes as he picked up the mug, “People are idiots. You enjoyed yourself.”

“I was under the influence. It wasn’t really within my control.” John argued sternly, cheeks flushing a bit just thinking about the whole thing.

His guest slumped back against the couch and sighed, “It was barely spiked. Just a drop, that’s all.” he waved off, sipping on the tea. It was rather flavourful, but not overly sweet; apparently John had a knack for making good tea. He made a note it. “And it was hardly as _disabling_ as you claimed - and being broader and stronger than me, I fail to believe that you simply could not ‘push me away’ or stop me if that had been your intention.” the dark haired teen debated, “Instead, you threaded your hand into my hair, and tried to stifle those delicious noises that were coming out of your mouth.”

John’s jaw tensed again, and he knew there was a slight flush on his cheeks. Did he have to use such descriptive wording, like ‘delicious’ to describe the sounds John had tried to hold back?…

“Sherlock, that’s not the point. I didn’t _want_ you to. I told you to stop pursuing this unfounded… romantic infatuation - and instead, you drugged me and sucked me off. You betrayed my _trust_. Do you realize how damaging that is? How highly I _value_ trust, above all else, in the people I let into my life?” he asked rhetorically, shaking his head lightly as he sipped his tea. “You took advantage of me.”

Apparently, Sherlock _hadn’t_ thought about it like that – and John was pleased to see he had the decency to look rather embarrassed, even irritated with himself. And he was. Sherlock knew ‘trust’ was something John valued; he could see it in the man’s behaviour, the way he treated others, the way others spoke of him. _‘Stupid, stupid…’_ Sherlock cursed. It seemed so _obvious_ now that John said it.

He needed John to trust him. And he might have ruined any possibility of making headway with his professor by resorting to that aphrodisiac.

“I… said I was sorry. I am.” Sherlock repeated, hesitantly glancing over towards John and then back down to the table. “You _can_ trust me.”

John pursed his lips together, “Apparently I can’t.”

“You can!” Sherlock insisted, sliding off the couch onto his knees so he could kneel near the side of John’s armchair. He rested his arms atop it, leaning in slightly; towel still draped around his shoulders like some sort of cape, “I know it was a mistake. I know I handled it badly, but I’m… I’m at a _loss_ with you, John Watson. No one _ever_ confuses me. I read people efficiently, deduce their lives and their secrets… you’ve seen me, you know! But you’re different. Oh-so _different_ , and fascinating in a way you shouldn’t be. Our relationship wasn’t moving as quickly as I would have liked – and I wanted to prove to you that I was an adult; that sexual activity would, in no way, be an obstacle - nor something you should feel _guilty_ about. I’m nineteen… twenty in six month’s time… and my intelligence vastly surpasses every student enrolled at London University. Undoubtedly, even surpasses the I.Q of most _Professors_ as well. I know what I’m doing. This isn’t childish fantasy. I _want_ you. I want to know everything about you, I want to get under your skin, I want to be in your blood, and I want you to _trust_ me. You can. I swear it; I won’t take advantage of you, I won’t trick you, I won’t give you one single reason to _ever_ doubt me again.” He rattled on quickly, shifting his icy blue eyes over John’s features – wondering if he was buying any of it.

Oddly enough, as much as it should have been an act to simply get ‘back on track’ with the progress of his bet with Jim… Sherlock _did_ want John to trust him. It was uncomfortable to have this feeling rattling around in the pit of his stomach; this need to gain trust, to be accepted, to _prove_ himself.

“Christ…” John sighed, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to him and out of his thoughts. The Professor rubbed his eyes, “…You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Sherlock smiled, “…No.”

Silence hung in the air between them for a good five minutes, and Sherlock began to hope, _dared_ to hope that this meant John was at least _considering_ his proposal. Finally, the older of the two spoke, “Alright.” he muttered quietly. “I-… _we_ can… try it.” John began hesitantly. He saw Sherlock perk up, and was quick to continue, “ **But** … we are going to do this on MY terms. Understand? I am going to set the pace. If you so much as whine, or complain, or _try_ to push things forward at a faster pace than what I'm comfortable with… we’re done. I mean it.” he finished in a firm tone.

The dark-haired teen had already begun to nod along quickly, “Yes, yes, yes, fine – that’s fine.” he agreed swiftly.

“Good. I’m glad you agree.” John smiled, “So, my first decision is that you are not allowed to approach me for a week.” Sherlock’s jaw actually dropped slightly, and John had to bite his tongue to keep from smirking proudly over the fact he’d caught the young genius off guard, “You’re going to earn my trust back. That’s the first step. So, you’re not going to contact me, you’re not going to stalk me… nothing. You will wait for me to approach you. When I’m ready.”

Every muscle and bone in Sherlock’s body wanted to protest. Naturally, he was worried that amount of time would hinder him; Jim was probably already making headway with Professor Moran – and not only did Sherlock _not_ want to lose five hundred pounds to Jim (he had his eye on some scientific equipment that cost about a thousand pounds; coupled with what he could get from Jim if he won, he’d finally have enough)… but worse… he didn’t want to have to _listen_ to that Irish cunt brag about the fact he’d won.

“…Fine.”

The voice was so quiet and defeated John wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. But Sherlock remained kneeling – still staring up at John from beside his chair. “Good… that’s…good. Thank you.” he nodded. Releasing a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, John stood up and lowered his hand to ruffle the loose, dark curls atop Sherlock’s head. “I’m going to call you a cab and give you the fare, alright?”

Sherlock clenched his teeth together tightly before nodding as he stood up and followed. He was going to have to swallow every instinct, every petulant urge, every inclination to speed this up… in order to gain John’s trust. This was above and beyond a simple bet – but Sherlock was convinced he _could_ do it. He wanted to know everything there was to know about John Watson by the end of this. And if he had to bend to the will of John’s stubborn pride… he would. It would work out. It _had_ to.

 

 

 

A week, it turns out, was much _longer_ than Sherlock had anticipated.

It was only seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

And yet Sherlock found himself bouncing off the walls – impatient, irritable, and itching for any sliver of attention from John. Being in the Professor’s lectures was even _more_ difficult, but somehow, he managed to restrain himself from approaching him after class or slipping him a note. Sherlock did manage to occasionally catch the man’s eye once or twice during his class – and took care to not overplay the contact, but rather, offer John a shy smile whenever it happened. To his delight, John would return them.

But that was all.

Sherlock had began to wonder that this was just some clever ploy by John to get rid of him for good. A week had passed. A week, and _three days_ , to be precise.

He was moments away from demanding that John pay some attention to him… when he got a text…

  
What do you think of that guest Professor? JW

Lestrade… something? He is teaching the Criminology course. JW

 

Sherlock furrowed his brow; not exactly the contact he was expecting…

 

Not unbearable. An inch or two more intelligent than the others. SH

I like him. We had a good chat today. JW

You may be surprised to discover that I’m not as interested in your social ventures as I am in the fact that you’ve contact me. SH

I can speak to you now? SH

No. JW

This is a text. JW

Texting is the next stage. JW

It’s neutral. There’s no physical influence. Just our words and potential compatibility. JW

Which includes, wondering if a future boyfriend may or may not be interested in how my day was, or who I might have met. JW

Tedious. SH

We can go back to not speaking, if you’d prefer. JW

….So. You enjoyed the company of Lestrade. SH

You don’t call him Professor? JW

He’s a ‘guest lecturer’. Hardly worthy of the title. SH

Besides, he doesn’t mind. SH

Yeah. You came up in the conversation. JW

Oh? An unpleasant topic, was it? SH

Actually, his exact words were: I _do_ like him, I just don’t know _why_. JW

How droll. SH

He’s a nice guy. Might go out for a pint later. JW

…Is this interest sexual in nature? SH

What!? JW

No! Why would you think that? JW

It was merely a question. SH

I was uncertain if your attempt to make me jealous was on purpose, or you were just being wonderfully obtuse. SH

I’m not trying to make you jealous. JW

I made a friend. That’s all I was saying. JW

Isn’t that what we are? Friends? SH

Well, yes. I’d like us to be. JW

That’s why this ‘texting’ part is so important. JW

You want me to trust you again, so, I need to know we’re friends first. JW

This will take ages! SH

If you participate correctly, it might happen faster than you think. JW

… I see. SH

So the ‘pub’ tonight then. SH

I think so. And you? JW

I’ve a final assignment that should take _less_ than an hour of my time. SH

And then? JW

…Probably texting you at hourly intervals in the evening to make sure Lestrade hasn’t taken advantage of you. SH

Ha-bloody-ha. JW

Have a good night, Sherlock. JW

You as well, John. SH

 

Sherlock was uncertain as to how he felt about this next ‘stage’ John was putting him through. Naturally, anything was better than no communicating at all. And he _did_ prefer to text when it came to conversing with others if the option was available. So perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. John needed to trust him, and if he would feel more comfortable befriending Sherlock first… so be it. Just more effort required.

But John wanted texting… he would get texting. And over the course of the following two weeks, Sherlock put this allowance well into use:

Do you have a copy of _Complications: A Surgeon’s Notes on an Imperfect Science,_ and _Better,_ by Atul Gawande, MD, MPH? I am interested in reading it. SH

Your office was open. Borrowed the _Atlas of Human Anatomy_ instead. SH

Also your Army issues Defence _Against Toxic Weapons_ and _Field Management of Biological Casualties_. SH

I dislike Professor Donovan. May need to draw attention to her on-going affair with _ex_ -Professor Anderson. SH

He’s also married. Which in itself is hard to believe. SH

I would like to see your shoulder wound up close. SH

One day. SH

Dissected a pigeon. SH

I need a bigger animal. It’s hardly a challenge. SH

Professor Donovan called me a ‘freak’ today. SH

Believe it or not, it’s a term I’m rather used to. SH

Have you spoken to your sister recently? SH

My brother is being annoying. SH

You should come over for tea. SH

How can supplements such as coenzyme Q-10, phosphatidyl serine, and Gingko biloba increase short-term memory power? SH

Do you still have your dog tags? SH

Have you had any contact with patients diagnosed with schizophrenia? SH

Lestrade is tolerable. SH

And apparently, competent enough to give me extra insight into you. SH

I didn’t know you used to play rugby. SH

Do you have access to Codeine? SH

Lestrade works at the Yard. He will be a useful contact. SH

I’m studying different types of burns. Quite interesting. SH

 

John had to smile at the number of times his mobile had beeped with these (and other) incoming messages. To his surprise, he wasn’t as bothered as he initially thought he would be. It was swiftly getting to the point that he looked forward to these attempts at interaction from the teen.

 

What have I told you about letting yourself into my office? JW

Just make sure you return whatever you borrow. I still need them. JW

Professor Donovan is nice enough. I don’t have too much interaction with her. JW

For godssake, please don’t scare away any more teachers. We’re short staffed enough as it is. JW

I don’t know why my shoulder wound interests you so much. JW

It’s just an ugly scar. JW

If I hear you’ve kidnapped a cat, dog, or god forbid, something larger to dissect, I’ll be cross with you. JW

You’re not a freak. They’re idiots. JW

I spoke to Harry the other day actually. JW

She’s fallen off the wagon again. Which _should_ have been a surprise, but it wasn’t. JW

I feel guilty for not having faith in her. JW

What’s your older brother like? JW

I picture a scarier version of Alan Rickman. Am I close? JW

It’s hard to discuss ‘brain supplements’ over text. I can give you more information later. JW

I do still have my dog tags. Two sets, actually. JW

I think they’re in the back of a drawer somewhere. JW

No cases of schizophrenia in the army. Did a bit of work with patients during med school though. JW

I need to warn Lestrade about ‘me’ as a subject between the two of you. He’ll get an earful. JW

But I’m glad you can ‘tolerate’ him. JW

I played rugby a long time ago. JW

I’m not giving you Codeine. JW

I hope you’re not burning yourself in the pursuit of this study. JW

I saw you in the library today. JW

John had just sent the last text as he was packing up for the day. It was a bit late; normally he left campus after his last lecture, but had stayed to mark some papers and catch up on a few upcoming lesson plans and the ever-looming midterm that was scheduled in about a month.

To his surprise (and repressed delight), he received an immediate text back:

  
Oh? SH

Yeah. JW

I was just returning a few slides. JW

You seemed engrossed in whatever book you were reading. JW

_About Criminals: A View of the Offender’s World_ by Mark Pogrebin. SH

Any good? JW

Adequate. SH

You should have come over. SH

I didn’t want to disturb you. JW

You’re so focused when you read. JW

I was afraid I’d get my arm chewed off if I disrupted a genius-at-work. JW

I miss you. SH

[no reply]

Disregard that last text. SH

[no reply]

I wasn’t intending to hit send. SH

[no reply]

Apologies. SH

No need for an apology. JW

You… miss me? JW

It’s not like I’m absent from you, though. We’re communicating. JW

Perhaps you can understand then, _why_ it wasn’t my intention to send that text. SH

I don’t mean ‘miss’ in a literal sense. As I am quite aware we’ve been texting steadily for the past two weeks. SH

I miss personal interactions with you; hearing the inflections in your voice, reading the look and emotions on your face, and hearing you giggle at some of the things I say. SH

Out of curiosity… JW

How many texts do you write to me that you never end up sending? JW

[no reply]

Sherlock? JW

At least three a day. SH

[no reply]

Not good? SH

What are you doing tonight? JW

Skimming through Professor Dimmock’s assigned readings from _The Future of Socialism_. SH

Boring. SH

Right. JW

Well maybe once you’re finished… you can come by. JW

…Really? SH

Though you might fancy a cuppa. JW

I can arrive at nine o’clock. SH

Alright. JW

See you then. JW

John hesitated before pocketing his mobile. He’d felt a sudden, unexpected protective surge toward Sherlock when he’d admitted that he ‘missed’ him. It had caught him off guard. The young man was usually so guarded and calculating. He was also intrigued (beyond belief) by the texts Sherlock didn’t send him; the ones he reconsidered, or had no intention of allowing John to see. He could only imagine they were in the same category as the ‘miss-you’ text. Secretly vulnerable and apprehensive.

“So…” John muttered to himself, “…tea, then.”

Sherlock had done well at listening to, and following, the rules John had set out. It had been nearly a month since the confrontation in his flat after the 'aphrodisiac' incident. And to be fair, he _did_ feel as if he knew Sherlock Holmes a bit better. He felt like he could call him a friend. Perhaps it was time to give him another chance.

_‘I must be mad.’_ He thought. An affectionate, fond smile found it’s way to his lips as he gathered up his things, and left his office. He had to change, tidy up his flat a bit… and put the kettle on for his company.


	5. One Small Step

 

 

At nine o’clock on the dot, Sherlock Holmes arrived on John’s doorstep. They exchanged slightly awkward, even borderline bashful, greetings at the door before heading inside the flat.

“Kettle’s just boiled,” John told him, taking Sherlock’s coat to hang it up. “Ah… are you hungry? I was thinking about ordering some takeaway later. Wouldn’t mind sharing.”

Sherlock sat on the couch, shifting a bit anxiously, “…I don’t really get hungry.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” John huffed, shaking his head, “But you’re skin and bones. You really should try and eat more.” he advised, fixing their tea in the kitchen, before bringing two mugs out for them. He set Sherlock’s down on the coffee table, and spared a glance toward the teen… only to notice he looked a bit uncomfortable. “Everything alright?” he asked.

Sherlock pursed his lips together, apparently debating whether or not to be honest – before blurting out, “I’ve no idea how to behave.”

“You’re telling me.” John jabbed with a playful smirk.

The dark-haired genius huffed and rolled his eyes, “Not in _general_ , though thank you for the insight into your overall opinion of me. I meant _here_ … with… _you_.” he spat, ruffling a hand through his hair erratically. “I am uncertain as to how I should act. These new ‘rules’ and… following your lead. I don’t know if this is just ‘tea’ or if it’s ‘tea-and-extended-company’ or ‘tea-that-will-lead-to-sexual-activity’…” he listed. John coughed a bit as some of his beverage went down the wrong tube, but cleared his throat, and continued to listen to Sherlock ramble on, “Am I permitted to be candid with you now? May I sit close to you? Am I allowed _only_ to text you? Is this a sympathy visit? How am I to know if we are progressing or not? Are y-”

“Sherlock enough.” John groaned, interrupting him. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and scowled; crossing his arms over his chest in a petulant manner, and looking very much the part of a bratty child. The professor couldn’t help but chuckle quietly as he took a seat in his chair, “I’m sorry if this is confusing. I didn’t mean it to be.” he admitted, “I just wanted to… slow this whole thing down, you know? To be honest, I expected you to lose interest once I put some distance between us and limited our contact to texting.”

The younger slouched back into the sofa, “I nearly did. I considered you something of a ‘lost’ cause. But giving up completely would interfere with my plans and I wasn’t about to let a slight lag in the progression of our relationship hinder me.”

“…Plans?” John repeated, furrowing his brow in a rather perplexed manner.

Sherlock immediately realized his slip, and froze for only a second, before responding, “The plans for my seduction. Of you. I’ve already explained in great detail how much I… desire you. And your company. Plans in the greater scheme of things. If I’d had my way we would have slept together by now.” he smirked, trying to turn the conversation back into a playful one.

John seemed to accept the answer, and shook his head, “You’re not the first person to underestimate me,” he sipped on his tea, “and just because others might jump at the chance to keep your… er… ‘attention’… doesn’t mean I would.”

Sherlock released a slow breath. That had been entirely too close. He had to wonder why he’d blurted out such an obvious mistake; referring to his ‘plans’, his little wager with Jim. What was it about John Watson that made him want to be so straightforward? So much… /himself/, as opposed to the ‘promiscuous’ young man who had already seduced _three_ other professors in their institution?

“So…” John smiled, “Tea and takeaway?…”

The teenage genius shifted his eyes around John’s flat, “If you’ll permit me… I’d like to look around. I might be able to deduce more about you by observing the habitat in which you live.”

“Well I guess that’s as blatant a request as I’m going to get for ‘give me a tour’.” He teased warmly, standing up with mug in hand to show Sherlock around.

 

 

 

To the surprise of both John and Sherlock, the evening had been rather enjoyable. As they had toured John’s small flat, Sherlock had spouted off deductions, only getting every 1-in-8 facts wrong each time they came to a particular object or picture. Once they’d had their fill, John ordered Chinese – and much to Sherlock’s chagrin – he _did_ end up eating, as John distracted him with lively conversation and debate. Afterwards, in a rare, blissful haze of being well-fed and talked-out (for once), Sherlock and John settled on the couch to watch some telly. There was some kind of Doctor Who marathon on, which Sherlock didn’t care too much for… but amused John with lazy deductions and stabs into the plot holes and lack of logic.

Sherlock surprised himself at how languid and comfortable he felt, leaning up against John as they watched and continued to speak quietly. He’d never had _this_ kind of… whatever… before. Perhaps others would call it a relationship. They were friends, at the very least, and he trusted John – though knew deep down John _shouldn’t_ trust him because his motives were untruthful. But he _wanted_ John to trust him, badly, and that in itself was causing Sherlock’s conscience to do somersaults in his stomach.

When John noticed the time, he offered Sherlock a spot on his couch for the evening. The teen accepted, of course, and was set up with a comfortable blanket and pillow before John left him with a sweet, chaste kiss to his cheek, and headed off to bed. Sherlock lay there for about another hour and a half, before he was certain John had fallen asleep. Abandoning the couch, the student slipped down the hall and into John’s bedroom; crawling into the professor’s bed and settling himself down beside the older male.

He spent a few hours simply staring at the man. John Watson _should_ be the plainest man on earth. He should be dull; his occupation was. He should be boring; the way he addressed others and was more than accommodating, pleasant, not quite a pushover but he liked to please. So Sherlock was baffled as to why. _Why_ his stupid brain and underused heart was lurching toward gaining John’s trust, knowing him intimately; better than _anyone_ else. He was so wrapped up in this internal enigma, that soon, he drifted off to sleep.

John was the first to wake. It was almost half-past six in the morning, which was when he usually got up to begin getting ready for his day. And to be honest, he couldn’t bring himself to be surprised that Sherlock Holmes had managed to sneak his way into his bed. He huffed a quick breath out of his nose, and shook his head fondly as he stared down at the sleeping student. He looked much younger when he was relaxed and peaceful. John was about to shift out of bed and let Sherlock sleep, when the genius opened his eyes – startling himself to wake, as if he’d felt John staring at him.

“I fell asleep.” Sherlock stated with something akin to _disdain_ in his voice.

John smirked, “Oddly enough, not where I left you either.” he commented casually. Sherlock looked up at him a bit sheepishly for once, as if expecting a reprimand. Of course, John didn’t have the heart, and simply settled for a small smile and a “Good morning.”

“Morpn-nhg…” Sherlock muffled the greeting back, looking away from John and snuggling back into the pillow he’d commandeered for himself. “I never sleep.”

John propped himself up on his elbow as he yawned, “Then you were due for a good one,” he scratched the back of his head, “I’ve got to start getting ready. There’s a few things I need to do before class this morning…” he explained.

The dark-haired youth groaned and flopped back down, huffing and making a show of burrowing as far as possible back into the sheets and pillows. John chuckled; something warm and strong lulling his heart and body forward, as he instinctively leaned toward Sherlock. The other seemed to sense the shift, and looked up; sleepy eyed, curls loose and tousled in all directions…

John couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward, down, and placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s lips. The teen seemed to stop breathing all together; his heart rate increased ten fold, his skin was tingling, and all he could do was stare in awe at John. It had happened. The wall had been breached, and John was beginning to see him as a romantic prospect…

Sherlock absently tilted his chin up again – and John responded with another smile, and another kiss. The genius closed his eyes and pushed forward a bit more to engage a bit more pressure between their lips. He nearly trembled when he heard John give a low, content hum from the back of his throat… before he was pulling away and slipping out of bed.

“I’m going to have a quick shower.” John explained, grabbing his clothes while sneaking the occasional glance back toward Sherlock. “When I’m done – you can have one too, if you’d like. We’ll grab a tea, and maybe a pastry on the way… I’m a bit behind schedule now.” he smiled once more at his student, before disappearing from the room and down the hall.

Sherlock didn’t exhale the breath he’d been holding until he heard the bathroom door close. It escaped from his lungs with a whoosh, and he collapsed back onto the soft mattress.

“…Interesting.” he murmured to himself. His lips still tingled from their first kiss. It wasn’t much, but with the confidence, and yes, even the gentleness, in which John had kissed him told Sherlock that Professor Watson was an experienced lover. He knew what he was doing, and it seemed, he was playing a game just as much as Sherlock was.

Of course John’s game was nothing but playful - with the best, and most hopeful, intentions in mind. He was certainly interested in Sherlock now. And that kiss indicated he was finally ready to, perhaps… invest a little more of himself, his trust, to the brilliant teen.

…Suddenly Sherlock felt a bit sick.

This was going to be so much harder than he’d imagined.

 

 

  
Despite the fact Sherlock’s day was littered with boring lectures and hourly breaks didn’t help clear his mind of John. And their kiss; their first kiss. He continued to replay it in his mind over and over again… the gentleness, the warmth. No. Sherlock had never been kissed like _that_ before. How could something so brief take over his focus for an entire day? It was infuriating.

His mobile buzzed, and the young genius tugged it out of his pocket eagerly, hoping John was offering another evening in his flat,

  
 _How’s your progress, darling? JM_

  
Sherlock winced; his mouth turning up into a small snarl, before he hurriedly typed back:

  
 _Going better than yours. SH_

_Stayed over at his flat last night. His bed. First kiss achieved. SH_

_Watson’s a pushover. JM_

_A challenge, actually. SH_

_Things not going well with Professor Moran, I take it… SH_

_Only a matter of time. JM_

_Stubborn doesn’t mean impossible. JM_

_More fun if I break him anyway. JM_

_You seem worried. SH_

_I’m not. JM_

_Wouldn’t be the first time you lost to me. SH_

_You’re only two to one. Not that much of a lead, poppet. JM_

_About to be three to one. SH_

_It’s that unwarranted confidence that’s going to get you into trouble one day, my dear. JM_

_Are we done? SH_

_I’ve a Professor to seduce. SH_

_Shouldn’t take long. SH_

_Remember: pics or it didn’t happen, Sherlock. JM_

_I’m not allotting you a win based on hearsay if you sleep with that gimpy little do-gooder. JM_

_I’ll have sufficient proof. SH_

  
Sherlock was about to stuff his mobile back into his bag… but decided to change course, and instead, text John while his competitive spirit was high:

  
 _Dinner? SH_

  
It was only a few minutes before John was responding:

  
 _Maybe. JW_

_You never told me you play the violin. JW_

_How did you know that? SH_

_Saw a photo of you playing. Few years ago at some campus event. JW_

_Dull. SH_

_Nope. Not dull. JW_

_You weren’t there. SH_

_All the more reason for you to play me a private concert. JW_

_In exchange for dinner. JW_

_You’re joking. SH_

_No violin. No dinner. JW_

_No… anything else, either. JW_

_I want to hear you. JW_

_Fine. SH_

_I’m looking forward to it. JW_


	6. Sherlock's Progress

 

Sex was inevitable.

At least, by Sherlock's prediction. Especially given the way their evening had begun...

As promised, the youth showed up at John's flat nearly two weeks later - violin case in hand and begrudgingly willing to play in exchange for more time with his 'boyfriend'. Their budding relationship had blossomed well from that first initial kiss in bed... to more confident ones that were shared in the evenings, or stolen within the safe confines of John's office on campus. Both were growing more secure and assertive in the physical side of their relationship.

They had exchanged greetings when he arrived at the flat (which to Sherlock's internal delight, included a couple chaste kisses), and John had already started cooking them dinner. So while they waited, he encouraged the teen to play him something... _anything_.

So the dark haired genius chose one of his favourite pieces; languid and smooth at times, before retreating back to more quick, rapid movements which demonstrated how dexterous and talented he actually was at the instrument so dear to his heart. Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone. But the way John stared at him while he played... the admiration, the awe, the disbelief... it all caused a great swell of affection to rise in Sherlock's chest. He played better; as best he could, enjoying the look on John's face, awaiting the praise that was sure to follow.

John was stunned into silence for a good three minutes before he finally breathed out an 'amazing'... followed by a host of other gushing phrases about Sherlock's talent that _actually_ had the teen blushing. He wasn't used to such open compliments, but John seemed almost eager to let him know just how 'fantastic' and 'brilliant' he was.

They sat down to dinner, fell into conversation easily, but seemed reluctant to take their eyes off each other for more than two minutes. By the time they were finished and John was preparing tea – the anxious professor had suddenly grumbled, “Oh, piss it...” and crowded Sherlock up against the kitchen counter to kiss him soundly on the mouth. The involuntary moan that followed would have been embarrassing if the younger genius had been of a mind to retain his dignity. But snogging John Watson was just _too_ distracting, too consuming. Not one to shy away, now that the proverbial dam had burst, Sherlock hopped up and wrapped his legs around John's torso, while his slender arms followed suit to wrap around the professor's neck.

The strange thing was, that once they arrived in John's bedroom – and the man had set Sherlock down onto his bed – the mood shifted. It was still intense; commanding complete focus from both individuals... but it wasn't nearly so rushed, so passionate. No. Now, Sherlock could see John wanted to slow things down. He planned to savour his first time with Sherlock, and _that_ had **not** been accounted for by the teen.

John began to undress him slowly, and Sherlock felt himself become unexpectedly self-conscious. But with each patch of skin revealed, John lowered himself to trail a line of kisses along the smooth surface. Sherlock's breath was shallow as he watched John discover and map out his lanky body as if he were fragile. As if he _deserved_ this gentleness...

When he was completely nude, panic set in, and Sherlock found himself sitting up to reach John - hastily trying to disrobe him so he wouldn't feel so vulnerable. But the professor seemed to see right through it, and grasped his hands into his own; kissing them sweetly and giving him a reassuring look. John nudged Sherlock back to lie down, while he finished getting undressed himself. The younger genius found his mouth becoming dry at the sight of John. He was, arguably, a great deal more attractive than Sherlock would've initially thought. His years in the army were still evident by the tone of his muscles. This was much different than any other 'seduction' for him... that for _once_... he was looking forward to it.

John seemed to get him, to understand him better than anyone else – and they hadn't even known each other that long. But John Watson was comfortable; he was safe, he was trustworthy, and he was honest. The moment skin touched skin, both young men groaned, and quickly silenced their noises with more heated kissing. As John worked his way down, he found sensitive spots on Sherlock's body that the other wasn't even aware he'd had. And when John began to suck him off, he lost all ability to think coherently.

Then he begged. Sherlock Holmes _begged_ John Watson to fuck him. It was incredibly wanton, and even now thinking back to it, Sherlock couldn't believe how numbingly desperate and needy he'd sounded, teetering on the cusp of one of he best orgasms he's had to date. John didn't even break stride as he slicked himself up - prodded Sherlock open, stretched him, and slid in, joining them at the hips. John made more guttural, low noises that were primal and painfully arousing. Sherlock gasped as his head hung back, open mouthed, as John finally began to move, and brought both of them quickly over the edge. It didn't take much after all this built anticipation.

Afterward, John slipped away from the bed to retrieve a flannel, and cleaned he and Sherlock up before discarding the item into his laundry hamper. He then returned to bed, pulled Sherlock close, and asked if he'd stay the night. The student was still finding it hard to form complete sentences, and instead settled for nodding his head as he nestled himself up against John's bare, warm torso.

Thus, as predicted: _sex was inevitable_. It had happened, and Sherlock had _known_ it would happen...

So _why_ did he feel so... caught off guard? Why was his heart still fluttering? His mind still reeling? Why did the places his skin touched John still tingle and buzz with internal electricity?

Quite simple. He'd enjoyed it.

He enjoyed it, and he... liked John.  
  


He was beginning to loose himself in the game, and was rapidly becoming completely and utterly infatuated with the target. His Professor.

It was this thought that kept him up most of the night. He watched John sleep and tried to rationalize his way out of this rather large hole he'd dug himself into. But then John would sigh in his sleep, or murmur gently, and nudge his face and body closer toward Sherlock; seeking and enjoying that warmth... and Sherlock's mind would slow again. His features would soften, and he would catch himself gazing affectionately at the older man.

He snapped himself out of it. This was a bet, and it had to remain that way.

Then again, he knew Jim's progress with Professor Moran was dreadfully behind schedule. So there was no reason to blow the whistle on the fact he'd slept with John – and _won_ the bet – until Jim was a little closer to securing Moran into his deceitful little web. He could enjoy his time with John for a little while longer... and try to discover what about Professor Watson made him so compliant and eager to stay in his good books.  
  


Sherlock slipped out of bed carefully, and moved over to his trousers. He fished out his mobile and brought up the camera. He moved back over to the bed, and took a picture of John – sleeping, and looking thoroughly debauched, like one would after a good shag. The covers hid enough so there was some 'modesty' to the picture, but clearly, it was an intimate pose and he was at his most vulnerable. But knowing that alone wouldn't be enough for Jim, Sherlock slid back into bed and pressed his back up against John's side. As predicted, the slightly older man rolled over, draped his arm across Sherlock's slender hip, and spooned him from behind as he continued to sleep. He waited for a few moments just to be sure, before he lifted the camera up above their heads, and took another photo with the both of them clearly in shot – and _very_ clearly together in bed.

He took a moment to stare at the pictures he'd taken, before he casually tossed his mobile back across; off the bed and safely into his pile of clothes with a thump. It was done now. He'd won fair and square, and he had sufficient proof.

But instead of feeling proud of himself for manipulating someone that was such a challenge – and succeeding... Sherlock only felt... guilt. A small swill in the pit of his stomach that made him shift and contort unhappily in bed. When he felt John's arms tighten around his waist, followed by a low groan at protest from all Sherlock's wriggling, he stilled and took a deep breath. There was only one thing he could do at a time like this...

So Sherlock turned, and buried himself into John's arms, nudging and working his head beneath the professor's chin so they were pressed up close against one another... and closed his eyes. He'd push away this guilt by making himself feel better in John's embrace.  
  


He could hide forever in this bed and with this man. He could hide from the morons at the university, he could hide from Jim, he could hide from his watchful older brother... and most importantly... he could hide from himself, and the horrible thing he had just done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Sherlock plays for John can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmRs-Yrbo_w
> 
> I know it's kind of a short-ish chapter, but I wanted to get their 'first time' done, and map Sherlock's internal debate with himself, so I can focus on the relationship side of things later on, before shit hits the fan.


	7. Distance Makes The Heart Grow...

Enjoying your trip, Doctor? SH

Do I detect a hint of sarcasm? JW

I have no idea what you’re talking about. Absolutely no idea at all. SH

Lovely then. JW

Shall I get back to my conference? JW

You know you don’t want to. SH

It’s alright to say you miss me, you know. JW

I said no such thing. Nonsense. SH

If I’d known you were going to be texting me every five to ten minutes, I might not have gone. JW

But I thought you’d be excited to be rid of me for a couple days. JW

… _Reluctant_ as I was to leave you unsupervised. JW

You’re texting me. I’m not texting you. SH

If you check our message history , I’m fairly certain /you/ are the one who initiates most of them. JW

No. SH

No, no, no. SH

I am right. You are wrong. SH

Oh! Well. JW

Don’t want me to text you anymore, then? JW

I said no such thing. SH

You can text me. If you must. SH

I’ll be home in two days. JW

You said one. SH

Nope. It was always two. JW

It was two yesterday. SH

It’s two today. JW

Liar. SH

Alright, I’m taking a later flight. JW

It’s my first time in Glasgow, so I figured I’d see the sights. JW

I’ve just been in and out of lectures for the past couple days. JW

Glasgow is boring. Dull. /Safe/ worst of all. SH

We can sight-see in London once you’re back. SH

You /hate/ sight-seeing. JW

Especially in London. JW

I really thought you’d be chuffed to have an extra day to yourself. JW

I hate _this_. SH

What? JW

I don’t hate sight-seeing. I hate this. SH

Texting me? JW

No. SH

The extra day. The Glasgow adventuring. SH

Well it shouldn’t really matter… JW

Unless you miss me. JW

You cruel man. SH

Someone’s missing his cuddles, is he? JW

I beg your pardon? SH

You simply re-arrange my hair while I rest my head on your thighs. SH

Nothing to miss. SH

Oh. JW

That’s too bad, then. JW

Rather enjoyed that. JW

...Yes, so do I. SH

I will let you do more of it if you come back. SH

Thought there was ‘nothing to miss’? JW

You miss it, clearly. SH

I’m sure I could find a lanky genius in Scotland with nice hair to get my fix, if it came down to it. JW

Good luck. SH

Don’t see it being a problem. JW

I’m a charmer. JW

Oh, no doubt. SH

You know, all this could be avoided if you just admit you miss me. JW

Stalling, are we? SH

Stalling? JW

Why would I be stalling? JW

Because there are no lanky geniuses in Scotland who would let you play with their luscious curls, for one. SH

I just giggled out loud in the middle of the lecture at ‘luscious curls’. JW

I am being completely honest. SH

I’m sure you called them that… once. SH

I’m almost certain I didn’t. JW

But maybe you’re right… JW

Wouldn’t be able to keep up a relationship anyway… JW

I’ve this eccentric student who’s _desperately_ mad for me. JW

He sounds like an extraordinary young individual. SH

He is. Much to my chagrin. JW

Much. SH

Come back. SH

Back to square one, I see. JW

You miss me? JW

Take a wild guess. SH

Is it really /that/ difficult to admit? JW

Your absence is very obvious to me. Come home. SH

The flat isn’t the same without you. SH

Wait. The flat? JW

You’re in _my_ flat? JW

Sherlock. That key was for /emergencies/. JW

Who says I didn’t have one? SH

I needed to get away from the masses of morons on campus. SH

It’s dreadful. SH

They were all droning and shuffling around. SH

Like those mindless monsters in those films you enjoy. SH

Zombies? SH

Yes. SH

Starving for brains. SH

So you’re just /staying/ in my flat?! JW

… I filled your icebox trays. SH

That’s something people do for others while they are away, isn’t it? SH

Come home and scold me properly. SH

Alright, alright. JW

I’ll be on a plane tomorrow. JW

Today. SH

Sherlock no. JW

Today. SH

I can’t leave the conference early just because you miss having your hair and ego stroked like an overgrown house cat. JW

I will sleep in your lap. SH

That’s… JW

Irrelevant. JW

Oh? SH

I will cling to your jumper and sleep facing your stomach. What else do you want? SH

An exchange. JW

Tit for tat. JW

Yes. SH

You come home, I sleep on you. SH

No. I get to sleep on you. JW

Once. JW

At a time of my choosing. JW

No drugs involved? SH

What kind of berk question is that? JW

Of course no drugs involved. JW

Once? SH

Well… yeah? JW

Can’t imagine you permitting it any more than that. JW

Would you? If I did? SH

Probably. JW

Good. SH

Good then. JW

Will you come? SH

Already on the train. JW

Been on it for the past four hours. JW

Exchanged my plane ticket. JW

Four. SH

I did not have to promise you anything. SH

You didn’t, no. JW

I hate you. SH

You’re such a dear. JW

I’ll be home in roughly three hours. JW

Make sure you have the kettle on. JW

I quite missed you. JW

No, no. SH

You don’t get tea. SH

You get an irritated, unhappy boyfriend. SH

…And how is that any different from any other time I see you? JW

It’s not. SH

Business as usual, then? JW

Define ‘business’. SH

I’ll come home, you’ll have a sulk on, and pretend not to care. JW

I’ll fix the tea myself and go to sit at the end of the sofa, because you happen to leave _just_ enough room with your legs tucked up so I can. JW

And depending on how mad you are, I’ll have between twenty and thirty minutes of peace, give or take, before you flop around and force your head into my lap. JW

Twenty. SH

I’m glad you missed me. JW

I’m glad you’re clever enough to know. SH

I just like having a go at you sometimes. JW

The opportunity doesn’t come up much. JW

It really doesn’t. SH

Three hours. SH

John smiled, and held his mobile in hand – hovering over the keys. This was where things got tricky. How exactly was he supposed to ‘sign off’, so to speak, in a relationship like this? These few days away had really made John realize how much he liked Sherlock. Genuinely liked him. The young man had popped into his thoughts a little more than _once_ during the academic medical lectures he was required to attend. At times, he would glance at his watch and realize he’d spent nearly an hour reminiscing about a particular moment between the two of them. It was never an overly important or monumental moment, but rather… something simple: an evening out together, a little rendezvous once or twice on campus in his office, or waking up together. They might seem undoubtedly mundane to some.

He was in trouble. He was digging himself into a hole, and it was progressively getting deeper and deeper; impossible to climb out of, if this kept up. Did this have a chance to work? John had never been in a relationship _like_ this before, so like Sherlock, he was kind of going blind.

_I lo-_

He stopped typing and stared down at the screen. After a moment or two, the Professor quickly deleted those three letters, and pursed his lips together as he went to place the mobile back into his pocket.

But another chime sounded, stalling him. John turned the device over, and saw Sherlock had texted him again.  
  


_I /miss/ you, John. SH_

  
John smiled. He supposed it was a _little_ far-fetched to believe that perhaps _Sherlock_ had been having the same internal debate with himself. ‘Miss’ was probably a good substitute for the moment... until they got to the point where they were both comfortable with using a very particular, _much_ more intimidating, verb.

  
_I /miss/ you, too. JW_

  
John was sitting at his small, wooden kitchen table; t-shirt and pyjama pants on, paper in front of him along with a cup of tea and a piece of half-eaten toast when he heard signs of Sherlock finally waking up, stirring from in the bedroom.

“I imagine you’ll be off to your _sister’s_ for Christmas?” Sherlock called from down the hall, voice full of bitterness and disdain when he said the word ‘sister’.

The older of the two smirked to himself, not even glancing up from his paper. “Good morning to you too…” he called back. Seconds later, he heard two feet petulantly stomping around from the bedroom, to the loo, then back to the bedroom, then back into the loo. “Doing your hair?” he asked fondly.

“Piss off!” the yell came.

“You are definitely _not_ a morning person, huh?…” John chuckled, taking another bite of toast before turning the page of the paper.

There was a bit more fussing and some irritated huffs and puffs from down the hall, until finally, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen. He was clad in his boxers; long, pale legs looking positively sinful as John’s striped black-and-white jumper hung a bit large on his thin frame. His dark, sleep tousled curls made him look younger than his nineteen years.

“You know, you /do/ have some shirts here.” John pointed out, tearing his eyes away from the other and back to his newspaper.

Sherlock began to prepare himself a cup of tea, “The jumper was closer.”

“I’m pretty sure that it was in the closet.” He replied fondly, unable to resist sneaking another glance at the student.

He liked the idea of Sherlock specifically commandeering a piece of his clothing because he liked it. He associated it with John, ergo, wanted to have ‘John’ around him. He took it as a sign of affection, instead of mere bratty-ness. Of course, the more he thought about it, John knew it was probably a little of both. He'd noticed that sometimes Sherlock liked to do things simply because he knew John would _let_ him get away with it.

“You _like_ me in this.” Sherlock's voice brought him back out of his thoughts. The teen was leaning against the counter, arrogant smirk on his lips as he held John’s gaze over the rim of his cup.

John blushed and shook his head, turning back to the news, “So. You going to your mum’s estate for Christmas?”

“She wants me to. Mycroft is practically _insisting_ on it.” Sherlock hissed, rolling his eyes as he took a seat beside John, bare legs pulled up to his chest as he stole the remaining piece of John’s toast. “And thanks to you, I have _no_ excuse not to be able to attend.”

The Professor smiled, and folded the paper, “Actually, I’m going to be around.” he said. It was quite hard to hold back a laugh at the sight of Sherlock’s head whipping around to stare at him with sheer hope shining in his eyes. “My sister’s heading off to Dublin for a few weeks to celebrate with her new flame… and my parents are visiting relatives in Northampton this year.”

He sipped on his tea again, and casually picked up a pencil to begin the crossword. Sherlock wasn’t making any sound, but John knew the teen was still staring at him. In fact, he only got partway through writing the word ‘Labyrinth’ into the blocks of number 5 DOWN, when Sherlock nudged his hand out of the way – and plopped himself down to straddle John’s lap.

He inhaled sharply, and looked up into the overly intense (and comically serious) face of his boyfriend.

“Invite me to stay for Christmas.” he demanded.

John turned his eyes up, as if he really had to think about it, “No. You hate Christmas.”

“I won’t if I spend it here.” Sherlock countered.

“I like warm drinks. And presents. And nostalgic music. And decorating. And all that holiday related tripe you usually complain about.”

The genius wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders, gaze not wavering. “I know a place that makes an excellent hot chocolate. I have several gift ideas in mind for you already. I can play you anything you wish on my violin. And as long as I can bring a few of my own… ‘decorations’… into this flat, I have no objections.”

John tilted his chin up a bit, trailing his eyes over Sherlock’s features for a tell; something to indicate this was nothing more than a load of bollocks.

But there was nothing. He looked desperate, sure, but also somewhat… excited. “Is ‘decorations’ just code for some of your ‘things’?” John asked calmly. “…You want to start staying here more regularly, so… you want some of your own personal effects here?”

There was a comfortable-but- _important_ silence that fell between the two as they stared at one another. John held his breath for a moment when he saw Sherlock’s pale cheekbones flush a delightful shade of pink.

“Would you… have an issue with… that?” The teenager asked quietly, leaning forward to nudge his nose against John’s where he perched above him.

He smiled, moving his lips up to kiss Sherlock’s smooth chin. “Not necessarily.” he answered, giving a slight shrug as his hands slid up the genius’ thighs and around his lower back. “If you’re sure, that is. If that’s what you want. I could be convinced to let you bring over some… ‘decorations’…”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up as he tried to hide a smile. John didn’t even bother hiding his, and beamed up at his boyfriend with a warm smile. He groaned as the younger surged forward and pressed their lips together as a silent thank-you. John tightened his arms and pressed Sherlock closer to him as their tongues began to meld and dance together; small noises slipping out from both men as they involuntarily vocalized their growing desire…

“Will you fuck me on the table?” Sherlock panted, breaking the kiss to nibble sharply at John’s lower lip.

He winced, but didn’t pull away as his own hands were roughly kneading Sherlock’s pert backside, “Not a chance…”

“Side of the armchair, then!” Sherlock whined grinding his hips down against his Professor’s to draw a huskier moan.

John’s head dipped forward to lick hotly at the racing pulse point in Sherlock’s soft, slender neck – drawing a louder noise from the teen writhing above him, “…Fine…” he growled, “But you’re keeping my jumper on.”

Sherlock released a guttural, needy whimper as he took John’s face in his hands to kiss him soundly on the lips once more.


	8. Winning

“It’s Christmas! Wake up.”

John groaned as he felt a familiar, lanky body crawl over his own. Peeking one eye open, he gazed up sleepily to see Sherlock, straddling his waist and staring down at him intently. He looked like he’d been awake for at least an hour or two; his hair, however, was still a bit erratic, as it usually was in the morning. John found it adorable.  
  
He smiled fondly, and closed his eyes again, “Just because it’s Christmas, doesn’t mean you need to get me up at the crack of dawn.” he yawned.

“Tradition dictates that people often wake up early and exchange gifts on Christmas,” Sherlock huffed petulantly, “and you were the one who told me to embrace this pointless holiday – so here I am, and _you_ , John Watson, have been sleeping too long. Up. Presents.” he demanded, poking and prodding.

John chuckled, “Maybe I’d have a bit more energy if a certain someone didn’t insist on being ravaged senseless last night.” he teased, sliding a hand up along Sherlock’s pyjama-clad, lean legs. “You actually lost the ability to form coherent sentences.” he bragged, “I think I’m entitled to a bit of a lie-in for rendering Sherlock Holmes speechless.”

Pausing to glance back up at the teen, John couldn’t help but chuckle as he saw those defined cheekbones begin to discolour with a rosy blush. He frowned and huffed out a breath, “Get up! John!” he whined, shaking him more vigorously.

John laughed and rolled over, briefly wrestling for the upper hand (which was easily won, given his healthy weight over the slender form of his boyfriend) – until Sherlock was positioned beneath him. The blush had deepened, and John trailed his eyes over the genius’ features, before softly placing a few, pacifying kisses on his lips. “Good morning.” he greeted properly. “Merry Christmas.”

“Mer-phm Ch-shmp-mph…” the dark-haired teen muttered, muffling his returning sentiment into John’s neck. “Can you get up now?” Sherlock asked, running his hands up to card his fingers through the Professor’s hair. “I want to give you presents.”

He laughed, and patted Sherlock’s hip, “Alright.” he groaned, getting up and stretching, “Did you put the coffee on, at least?”

“Of course!” the younger exclaimed, dashing off the bed and out of the bedroom. “An assortment of those pastries you fancy have also been arranged on the table!”

John smiled as he pulled on a jumper over his t-shirt. “You’re being rather sweet.”  
  
“I’m not sweet!” he heard the tantrum from the kitchen as Sherlock yelled down the hall, “It’s simply more efficient to have _pre-made_ things available, so that you aren’t wasting time puttering around the kitchen making food! It’s tedious!”

He quietly laughed and headed out, down the hall, and into the kitchen where Sherlock was pouring him a hot cup of coffee. John sidled up behind him, pressing his chest against the teen’s back. He heard Sherlock’s breath catch slightly at the contact, but he relaxed as his professor gently nestled the back of his dark curls with his nose. John pressed a few kisses along the soft skin of his neck, “Thank you.” he smiled, taking the cup and pulling away.

“Yes, yes, fine… presents now!” Sherlock turned to begin ushering him into the sitting room. They’d gotten a small tree, decorated, and – true to his word – the temperamental genius had made the effort to partake in the holiday John was so fond of. And if Sherlock was being honest with himself, he was actually having a decent time of it. John was making the holiday far more tolerable than it would’ve been at Mummy’s estate.

After settling themselves in the cozy confines of John’s sitting room, they began to exchange their gifts. Sherlock had spared no expense when it came to gifts for his professor. He bought John a few hardback medical books, a few cashmere v-neck jumpers (Sherlock had been on him for months about getting some more subtle, ‘fashion forward’ ones), an older, collectors-edition of Gray’s Anatomy (not practical, but a keepsake nonetheless), a new coat, a blue scarf he thought would bring out John’s eyes, and finally, a new top-of-the-line kettle.

“Sherlock, this is all lovely… but you really didn’t need to spend so much money on me.” John scolded weakly, giving the teen a grateful smile. “You should save it. You’ll want it once you’ve completed school.”

But the genius waved him off, “Nonsense… I come from a wealthy family. You know that,” he crawled forward, beginning to pull the gifts addressed to _him_ from John out from under the tree. “Spending money on you is not a fruitless venture. I enjoy doing it.” Sherlock paused, glancing at John with a quirked brow, “Besides, you clearly need my assistance when it comes to developing a sense of style.”

“Oi…” John frowned, giving Sherlock a light whack on the arm, “That’s enough of that. Go on, before I decide to take back all the presents I got you.” he teased.

Sherlock did just that, and tore into the perfectly wrapped gifts John had laid out for him. He received a couple new, nice hardback notebooks (as the teen always seemed to be scribbling endless notes on scraps of paper), a pocket magnifier (which, John had initially done as a joke, but even after Sherlock balked at the gift, it made it’s way carefully into the pocket of his pyjama pants), some new test tubes, and finally, a visitor-pass to St. Bart’s that John had secured through his friend, Mike Stamford. It had taken some convincing, but he managed to get his old friend to agree to give them a detailed tour.

The young genius seemed rather pleased with his gifts overall. Gifts were never his area, and others seemed to have a hard time buying for him. But as always, John was practical, and got him things he could actually make use of. The in-depth tour of St. Bart’s was particularly intriguing. He was about to suggest they toss themselves back into bed for ‘holiday’ sex now that the presents were over and done with… but when he turned to look at John, he saw his professor looking a bit sheepish. He was holding a small box.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt quite nervous and a bit off balance. His mind began to race over every possibility as to what might be inside it. Obviously it was special… John would have thrown it in with his other gifts if it wasn’t. No. This _one_ … it meant something. He could tell by John’s anxiousness – he was avoiding eye contact and there was a hint of a blush on his cheeks. The older man cleared his throat, and handed the gift to Sherlock,

“This is… er, well, just a… little extra one. Sort of.” he began, “It’s- … well it might be a bit stupid. I don’t know. It was just something I thought of.”

Sherlock eyed John wearily before taking the box and opening it. His icy blue orbs were immediately drawn to the silver glint inside amidst the white tissue paper. Dog-tags. _John’s_ dog-tags. He swallowed, and looked back up at John.

John seemed to interpret this as ‘a-bit-not-good’, however, and shook his head, “Ah, yeah, I know… it’s stupid. You don’t have to keep them or anything. I’ve an extra set, and… I saw you look at them a few times, and I thought- … what the hell, right?” he rambled, “Of course I didn’t really think of what giving you my dog-tags could symbolize, and… you’re probably thinking it’s like a ring or something. And it’s not. It’s _not_ a ring. I just thought they could help… um, rather, remind you to think twice about some of the things you do. Since we both know trouble seems to find you wherever you go. You could feel the weight against your chest, and ask yourself, ‘ _What would John do in this situation_ ‘… or something…” he smiled and shook his head, “Christ. It sounds even more ridiculous when I say it out loud. And now I’m getting a bit worried, because… you _still_ haven’t said anything…” he trailed off.

Sherlock had a full glare set on his features now. His usually pale cheeks were flushed pink, and he looked as if he was trying to contain himself from exploding. ‘ _Here it comes_ ‘… John thought. He was ready for Sherlock to tear apart his sentimental, useless gesture, and chastise him for it. But instead, the teen strode forward and barreled into John; his long arms wrapping tightly around his neck.

“…Thank you.” Sherlock’s quiet voice came.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and was about to speak when Sherlock continued, “…I don’t deserve this. _Any_ of this.”

“What are you talking about?” John chuckled, “It’s a Christmas present. You don’t need to _deserve_ it. I’d like you to have it.” he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, then one into his messy dark curls. The other didn’t answer him. He seemed to slump into John’s body and arms, as if he were defeated. Exhausted even; as if all the energy had suddenly been zapped out of him.

“…Sherlock?” John muttered gently, clearly a bit concerned about his boyfriend’s behaviour.

Sherlock pulled himself out of John’s arms, and stood back – slipping the dog-tags around his neck – before looking expectantly at his professor. “I want to have sex. Immediately.” he spoke firmly, “And I will keep the dog-tags on.”

“…Ooook?” John quirked a brow, and let a small laugh escape past his lips. “Want me to carry you to the bedroom?” he teased.

“No. Here. Right here.” Sherlock specified, kneeling down to push and nudge the presents and empty boxes out of the way in front of the tree. “Beneath the tree.”

John smiled and fell to his knees to crawl over toward the young man, tilting his chin so he could kiss him sweetly on the mouth. Sherlock was a bit stiff and seemed distracted at first (why, John wasn’t sure)… but eventually eased into it, and tugged John atop him. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.” he murmured huskily against the teen’s neck.

“…Happy Christmas, John.”

 

 

 

 

It was snowing out now. Overcast and cold… though the boys weren’t affected in the slightest.

Sherlock was sitting up in John’s bed while the older man lay beside him completely knocked out by the early morning gift exchange, good takeaway, and a few romping rounds of sex. He stared at John while he slept, lost in his thoughts regarding the holiday… John… and this damn wager.

It was a mistake. Sherlock was beginning to realize that now. He had allowed himself to become _too_ close to John, _too_ enamored of him. The dog-tags had completely thrown him off, because frankly, no one had _ever_ given Sherlock something so monumental or meaningful. It was a piece of John, and the gesture was intimate enough that Sherlock had nearly thrown up right then and there. The genius had meant it when he said he didn’t deserve the gift.

But he was attached to them now. He had already taken to absently turning them over and over in his hand while he was thinking or reading.

Picking up his mobile from the nightstand, Sherlock began to type out a text, while he occasionally allowed his eyes to drift over John’s sleeping torso.

_I want to call it off. SH_

It only took a few minutes for a reply to come through,

_Oh? Hit a wall with Watson, did you? JM_

_No. SH_

_It’s tedious and not nearly as entertaining as I imagined it would be. SH_

_So you’re forfeiting? JM_

_Not quite. SH_

_Clearly, I’ve won, as you’ve yet to sleep with Professor Moran. SH_

_Should be any day now. He’s beginning to have a change of heart. JM_

_Continue to tell yourself that. SH_

_You owe me five hundred pounds. SH_

_Prove it! JM_

_[Photo Attachment: IMG_02981] SH_

_No. JM_

_Yes. SH_

_I would prefer to have the money in cash, if you please. SH_

_Naked pictures of Watson sprawled in bed doesn’t mean you shagged. JM_

_[Photo Attachment: IMG_02982] SH_

_Perhaps not, but the second photo wherein I am in bed with said-professor is rather incriminating evidence, wouldn’t you agree? SH_

_SHUT THE FUCK UP! JM_

_My, my. You do not take losing very well, do you? SH_

_The game is over, Jim. You’ve lost. SH_

_Oh my dear, the game is **far** from over. JM_

_But I’m a chap who keeps my word. I’ll have your money tomorrow. JM_

Sherlock scoffed, and tossed the mobile back onto the nightstand. It was over. He had won the wager fair and square. But now the predicament arose as to how to ease away from John…

Shuffling down further on the bed, Sherlock situated himself so he was lying beside the other man. He rested on his side, and stared at him, once more mapping out the curve of his nose, his lips, brow and chin.

Would it be necessary to ‘ease’ away from him?… Perhaps John never had to know that their relationship was born with ill intentions. Perhaps he could continue seeing his professor, and exploring these new-found feelings, this… _relationship_. Sherlock had to admit he rather liked the idea. He would have secured his money, and an interesting prospect all at once…

And John definitely _was_ an interesting prospect. One that he intended to keep.

 

 

 

 

The next few weeks were oddly quiet. Both Sherlock and John got back into their routines after the Christmas holiday, and the young genius found himself spending more and more time at his professor’s flat. He never did return the ‘spare key’ John had given him, and much to his delight, John never asked for it back. More of Sherlock’s belongings began to litter the flat; Fridays and Saturdays were becoming their nights out, while Sundays were lazy and full of tea, crap telly and bed.

For the first time in years… Sherlock could say he was happy.

John was supportive and tolerant of his eccentric habits, but had still taken it upon himself to get a bit of discipline and normality drilled into Sherlock’s brain every now and then. It was tolerable, though; a good balance. Sherlock found it endearing rather than annoying, and John’s scolding was more half-hearted instead of threatening. The ‘skull’ found it’s new home over the fireplace (though it did take a bit of convincing for John to get on board with displaying it), jumpers soon mixed with stylish button-ups in the closet, and John’s flat simply became ‘the’ flat.

Home.

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa with his head on John’s lap as he played around on his mobile. John had been grading some final papers (and trying to keep Sherlock’s comments about how ‘generous’ he was being with his grades out of his mind), while his free hand had threaded itself into Sherlock’s hair and was stroking the soft curls absently.

“I’ve a free period tomorrow…” John muttered as he flipped the page of the essay.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment, but didn’t answer.

“Thought I’d pop round to your Sociology lecture.” he continued, frowning as he scribbled alongside a few spelling mistakes, “Dimmock says you’ve got presentations going. I’d like to listen in.” he smiled.

Sherlock groaned, “Absolutely not. It’s dreadful. They won’t understand a word, I’m sure. I can’t imagine _why_ you would wish to subject yourself to such a tedious afternoon.”

“Because watching _you_ try and lecture a room full of students is just too tempting to pass up,” he chuckled, “Maybe you’ll gain a bit of respect for what I have to put up with all day, every day.”

The genius grinned, “You only put up with it because you _want_ to. You have the resources available now to return to a practice, if you wish. Be it in a clinic, Bart’s, or establishing your own. Your limp and intermittent tremor were preventing you before, but now that your limp is gone and your tremor has subsided… you’ve no reason to remain a professor.”

John turned his eyes down toward Sherlock, “Well maybe I like being close to my boyfriend.”

“Dull.” the teen answered, though his hand had slipped down to gently rub John’s leg affectionately.

The professor looked back to his papers, “Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.” he mused, beginning to mark again, “Maybe soon… I’ll look at returning to medicine. My own practice might be nice. It’s always been a dream of mine.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, feigning distraction, but really quite interested. He always enjoyed learning and logging away facts about John. He came from a wealthy family, and was entitled to a rather large trust when he came of age. He had little use for money himself, so, what better way to spend it than on John? He could buy him a place where he could set up his own neighbourhood practice… “Well, I’ve another year before I graduate. Think you can endure it until then?”

John paused, glancing up from his paper, “No.” he answered, “Sorry mate. You’re on your own.”

Sherlock’s mouth turned up into a slight smile. He placed his mobile on the ground, and then turned around to further nestle into John’s stomach and lap, “Perhaps I could change your mind.”

The professor flicked his eyes downward, before heaving a sigh and shuffling his papers aside, “Oh could you?” he baited.

The dark-haired genius grinned, and crawled up and over so he was perched atop John’s lap. He swooped down and immediately caught the man’s lips with his own, humming appreciatively at the familiar warmth and texture of John’s mouth. When they parted, John nudged his nose against Sherlock’s, “…I’m still coming to your presentation.”

“Nooooooooooo.” Sherlock groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes and throwing his head back to show his displeasure. “I won’t be able to concentrate if you’re there. I forbid you to come.”

John used the fact that Sherlock’s neck was exposed to his advantage, and began nibbling and kissing his way down the pale column. “Then you’ll get to experience the same thing I do every time I give my lecture, and you’re in the front row. Staring **me** down.” he countered.

“That is _completely_ different.” Sherlock huffed, trying to keep his agitation, but subduing the purr that threatened to escape from his lips at John’s administrations.

John scoffed and pulled back, shaking his head, “What? How exactly?”

“This is unnerving for ME.” Sherlock declared, bringing his head back down to glare petulantly at his boyfriend. The professor gave a hearty laugh and stood, slinging the tall, lanky genius over his shoulder. “Have you mistaken me for a sack of potatoes?… Unhand me!” he demanded, giving a feeble attempt to struggling within John’s hold. “I refuse to become intimate with you unless you swear you _won’t_ come to my presentation.”

John just calmly made his way down toward the bedroom, “Oh I think I can get you to change your mind…” he smiled, whacking Sherlock on his arse with the flat of his hand.

 

 

 

 

“See?” Sherlock muttered, leaning close to speak into John’s ear as they watched yet another student deliver a mediocre presentation. “I told you. This is _torture_. If I wanted an aneurism I would have taken Professor Anderson’s introductory course to Criminology.”

John huffed, “Keep your voice down. It’s a presentation… we can’t giggle during a presentation.” he smiled, “They worked really hard on this and y-” He couldn’t even get through the sentence before he and Sherlock were laughing quietly to themselves.

As expected, John had been impressed (and rather proud) of Sherlock’s presentation. The teen was naturally charismatic, if not a bit intimidating and arrogant, but he seemed comfortable speaking to large groups of people with a poised presence that seemed to command the attention of the room. Everyone had certainly been listening – and Sherlock had even gotten a few laughs when he systematically dissected a few smart-ass questions that were thrown his way.

Afterward, Sherlock took a seat beside John in the loose chairs that had been sectioned against the side of the lecture hall for those presenting this morning. They had whispered and giggled their way through four other presentations – earning them the occasional warning glare from Professor Dimmock.

“Alright… we’ve an addition to the order today, due to a scheduling conflict. Our last presentation will be given by Mr. Moriarty.” Dimmock called, settling back down at his desk as Jim approached the podium.

Sherlock immediately caught Jim’s eye, and his body tensed as the Irish teen met his gaze and smiled sweetly. He gave Sherlock a small wave, and then began to re-organize some of his papers before readying the projector at the front of the hall.

“Hey…” John nudged the teen, “What’s wrong? You look so serious all of a sudden.”

Sherlock turned and stared at John, as if he’d forgotten he was there. Of course by the time his brain began to cipher through what was _happening_ , and what was _coming_ – it was already too late.

He hadn’t accounted for an act of sabotage. And it had been a grave error on Sherlock’s part.

“John…” he breathed; his mind was racing a mile a minute, struggling and grasping at what he could possibly do to stop what he knew was about to begin…

“Good morning.” Jim nodded sheepishly to the class, giving the room a winning smile, “My presentation is going to focus on the psychological, physical, and emotional dynamic between authority figures and common civilians,” he cleared his throat, and clicked on the projector to display his title screen, “I will be exploring, more specifically, this dynamic in relation to a structured, scholastic institution. Professors and Students. The sub-categories will focus on discipline and communication… though first I would like to address the results of my latest experiment.”

He clicked to the next slide, and immediately, a shocked murmur erupted through the room…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffy :) Though not really, since I'm sure most of you saw this coming. Anyway, I cut the chapter off here, since the next one is going to just be a whole lot of angst. Apologies for the new chapter delay.


	9. All Hearts are Broken

For a few minutes, John Watson couldn't hear anything.

He couldn't hear the shocked murmurs, or giggles, or snide remarks that were being uttered throughout the lecture hall. He couldn't hear Dimmock telling everyone to settle down. He couldn't hear Sherlock repeating his name...

All he could focus on was the fact that his picture was projected onto the screen. In bed, clearly naked – though the sheets covered just enough of him that his modesty was in tact. Somewhat, at least.

He stood up abruptly from his chair, and was about to confront Jim and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, when Dimmock boomed first, “What the hell is going on here, Mr. Moriarty?!”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Jim frowned, shaking his head a bit, “I realize it's a bit... controversial, but it's part of my argument. Mr. Holmes and I arranged an experiment, wherein we were to seduce a professor, and see how long it took to shift the weight of power.” he explained, clicking to the next slide – which showed both John _and_ Sherlock in bed. More excited and stunned reactions fluttered through the room, much more loudly this time.

John was utterly gobsmacked... and turned to finally look at Sherlock. The genius in question looked not so much stunned, as horrified, and more guilty than John had ever seen him.

“You- ….” he cut himself off and swallowed; his mind piecing together everything over the past few months. “... _You_ did this?”

Sherlock took a tentative step forward, “John... I'm- … it's not what you think...”

“Oh come now, Sherlock. You were a great help.” Jim beamed, walking over toward Sherlock and holding out a wad of money, “Here. There's the five hundred pounds we agreed on. Thank you for your participation.” he paused, giving his counterpart a knowing smile, "I couldn't have done it without you."

The dark-haired teen snarled, and tackled Jim to the ground without missing a beat – punching and beating him as hard and as furiously as he could. Dimmock rushed over to tear them apart, while John was still too stunned to actually do anything. He just kept staring at _his_ picture... plastered over the screen...

“Alright! That's ENOUGH!” Dimmock yelled, finally separating Jim and Sherlock. “Everyone out. Now. Class is dismissed. Holmes and Moriarty, you're staying.” he barked, bringing his eyes back over to John. “...You too, Professor Watson.”

The room full of students slowly began to dissipate; occasionally turning to steal another glance at the photo, or snap a few pictures on their mobiles.

John closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths as Dimmock approached, “This isn't good, Watson...” he sighed, speaking quietly to his co-worker while Sherlock and Jim stood further off, separated, but staring one another down. Sherlock's face was set in a glare, however, while Jim was wearing a rather pleased smile. “Entering into a physical relationship with one of your students is against the rules... nevermind the fact that you actually chose Sherlock Holmes of all people.” he scoffed, glancing back to the teens. “Anyone here could have told you that it was going to come back 'round and bite you in the ass. They're manipulative. The both of them.”

John didn't answer. He just stared, tense and tight lipped as Dimmock walked over to the projector and shut it off. He took the memory stick with the pictures and Jim's presentation on it – and then turned to all three, “I think we should go see the Dean. As quickly as possible, too... God knows the whole campus will have gotten word of this in an hour.” he turned to shoot a sharp look at the young men. “Go on. Dean's office. Right now.” he snarled.

Sherlock didn't want to move. Frankly, he didn't want to do anything but run to John and explain everything as quickly as possible. But he turned, and followed Jim – who seemed all too calm considering the amount of trouble they were about to get in - out of the lecture hall. Dimmock slowed next to John, and patted him on the shoulder in a mildly consoling (and slightly apologetic) manner, before leading him out of the room.

 

 

 

The pictures were buzzing around campus and most social media outlets by noon.

John had been forced to unplug his office phone, due to the high volume of telephone calls from the media, concerned parents, and other professors.

It was easily the most humiliating moment in his life; completely stripped of any remaining pride he'd held onto after returning from Afghanistan. His reputation was gone. He was now a 'molester' of students. He was a 'cradle robber'. He was 'one of those untrustworthy homosexuals' (as one outraged mother had called him over the phone). He was a corrupter of youth.

And now... he was unemployed.

The Dean held no reservations about firing John on the spot after seeing the photos and hearing Dimmock's explanation of what had happened. To his credit, the other professor seemed a bit reluctant to really blame _John_ for anything... and was more in arms about the way Holmes and Moriarty seemed to conduct themselves around campus, toward other students and professors; in his mind, it was solely their fault. John appreciated the attempt, but the Dean (like so many others) was more interested in punishment. John would be fired. Jim and Sherlock would be suspended and then kept under strict supervision for the duration of their year.

John was in the process of clearing out his office and desk when his mobile vibrated with an incoming message. He sighed – reluctant to even _check_ it, given the mood he was in – but did so, and opened the new message...

 

_John, I'm sorry. SH_

 

Another quickly followed,

 

_This entire mess isn't what it seems. Please answer. SH_

 

The ex-army Doctor clenched his jaw tightly, and simply turned off his mobile. His heart clenched painfully any time he thought of Sherlock now... and of what a idiot he'd been.

It had been absurd to think that a young genius with that kind of potential would ever be _genuinely_ interested in him. There were a lot of signs, thinking back to it now, that alluded to Sherlock and Jim's wager. The fact that the teen had been so adamant about dating John in the _first_ place seemed like such a glaringly obvious hint now. But hindsight in moments like this was always a bit pointless, though.

Sherlock had gotten under his skin. John had come to care deeply for him... even love him. He hadn't _said_ it yet, but the professor had known that the day was coming. Had this never occurred, John knew he'd been ready to keep their relationship going for as long as he could; the young man had been endlessly entertaining, endearing, and kept him on his toes.

Now he felt like a right fool. _Sherlock_ had made a _fool_ of him.

   
  


 

 

He was utterly exhausted by the time he'd returned home. He'd stopped off quickly to register and buy a completely new mobile and register for a new number. Sherlock's constant texting was becoming more and more insistent, and John had just about reached his breaking point.

So naturally, the last person he expected (or wanted) to see in his flat upon return was Sherlock Holmes; standing in his sitting room, looking anxious and as worn as John felt. But the teen wasn't going to be able to gain his sympathies this time. The two of them simply stood there for a few moments, staring at the other before Sherlock finally worked up the courage to speak,

“...You weren't answering my texts.”

John's jaw was so tense he actually found it a bit of a struggle to respond, but he did so tersely, “Changed my mobile. New number.”

“I see.” Sherlock nodded slowly, “...May I have it?”

“Piss off, Sherlock.” John growled, dropping his box of belongings down onto the ground with a loud slam. “You honestly think I can stomach speaking to you now?! Even _looking_ at you? ...Get out.”

Sherlock winced and shook his head, “John this is just a misunderstanding...”

“Is it?” John asked, marching toward Sherlock with enough of a menacing aura that the teen took a hesitant step back when he came close. “So you _didn't_ make a bet with Jim Moriarty that you could seduce me before _he_ seduced another professor?... Or am I misunderstanding the part where you've _done_ this before? That I'm not the _first_ professor you've seduced?”

Sherlock found himself speechless for a moment, as everything John had said was true. Yes, he'd made a bet with Jim. Yes, he'd done it before. “But you're different... you've _always_ been different, John, you-”

“Get **out** Sherlock.” John snapped, interrupting as he turned away from the teen. “You've humiliated me enough in one day to last a lifetime. I'm done with you.”

The younger pursed his lips, racking his brain for anything and everything he could do to make this better. He took a few steps to follow John, who had begun to walk away from him in disgust, “You're just upset. It's been a horrible day, you were embarrassed, you've lost your job, and it was all because of my mistake. So tell me how to fix it, and I will. What is it you want?... Another apology? Shall I drop out of school completely?... I could pay you. I could give you a large sum of money, so you wouldn't need to worry about lack of work. Will that do? Just name your price and w-”

Sherlock's head snapped back violently as John's fist connected with his cheek. He hadn't been expecting the punch, so he completely toppled over, back onto the carpet. He moved a hand up to touch his face, and snapped his eyes up to John in alarm. The professor looked positively murderous as he stood, heaving deep breaths in and out as he looked down at the teen.

“ _Fuck_ you, Sherlock. You can't buy your way out of this! It doesn't work like that,” He bellowed, “You took enough of my pride and dignity away with your stupid bet. Don't insult me by thinking all this can dissapear at the right price!” John closed his eyes, trying to hold back any tears that were threatening to gather in his eyes, “All this proves to me... is that you entered into the bet with Jim for pure _sport_. You're already 'incredibly wealthy' (as you've never failed to remind me), which means you didn't really _need_ five hundred pounds for anything. It would have been pocket change to you.”

When he looked back over at Sherlock, he was a bit surprised to see the genius at a complete loss, again. His mouth was parted slightly, as if he wished to speak, but nothing was coming out. John sighed and clenched his fist, which was now beginning to ache a bit after the punch.

“Give me your key.” he instructed as calmly as he could.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he shook his head, “...But I live here.”

“No. Sherlock. You don't.” John corrected sternly, “You were _staying_ here. Give me your key.”

The genius shook his head, “John, I said I was sorry, I'll do anything. Anything! I want to stay here, I want to stay with you-” he rambled quickly. The professor, it seemed, had just about enough with his young lover, and moved over to simply rifle through Sherlock's pockets himself. He finally got a hold of his keys, and took the one for his apartment off the keyring, before tossing the others back to Sherlock.

“Get out, Sherlock.” he repeated.

Sherlock stayed on the ground and didn't move – staring up at John like he couldn't believe this was happening; like he couldn't believe John was being so stern with him. It only served to upset John more, to be honest. HE was the victim here. Not Sherlock. Sherlock had lied to him, Sherlock had toyed with him, he'd gotten his hopes up, and lured him into a false sense of trust and companionship.

“John, no. I- … I don't want to leave, I can fix it, just t-” Sherlock was once more cut off as John grabbed him by the lapels of his Belstaff coat, and physically dragged him over to the door.

The younger attempted to struggle, to no avail, and soon found himself back outside what was once 'home'. “I'll pack up your things for you.” John growled, “I'll let Lestrade know so he can pass along the message. You can come pick it up.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by a door slamming and locking in front of his face. It was so... jarring. It was final. He had ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him over a foolish bet. Granted, Sherlock couldn't blame the 'bet' entirely, because if it wasn't for said-bet, he never would have realized how incredible John Watson was in the first place.

It was difficult to walk away. Sherlock gradually took one step at a time, down the stoop, away from the door until he begrudgingly found himself on the sidewalk. His eyes hadn't left the door though... as if he hoped it would open, and John (sensible, tolerant, wonderful John) would tell him to come inside before he caught a cold; that they would figure a way to smooth it all out.

But that didn't happen. And soon, Sherlock had no choice but to walk away.

The next time he looked back toward the flat, the sitting room light had been turned off, and all was dark.

 

 

 

Over the next three weeks, Sherlock did whatever he could to get in touch with John. John had changed his number, so texting was out of the question now. He tried to email, of course, but the man's school email had been disabled once he had quit, and John's personal email address no longer existed. Evidently, he'd changed it too.

So, the persistent genius took to writing letters; an old standby. But the letters, as predicted, went unanswered. Every so often, Sherlock would wander down John's street and pass by the flat. He tried to dress incognito – having upset John enough, he didn't want to add 'stalking' to the list of things his professor was mad at him for – to hopefully catch a glimpse of the older man. But he didn't.

Sherlock knew he only had himself to blame. He'd ruined this. He'd handled everything badly, and had been distracted by his growing feelings for John... so much so, that a rat like Jim Moriarty had been clever enough to beat him; to sabotage everything he had hoped to preserve before Sherlock could put plans in place to stop it.

When the one month mark was about to hit (since Sherlock had last seen or spoken with John), the young genius broke. Since he was still suspended from the school until next week, he was able to get to John's flat bright and early. He dressed sharply, and arrived just after ten in the morning. He rapped on the door, and shifted anxiously on his feet... both excited and nervous to speak face to face...

But the person who answered was not his John. It was a woman.

“Hello...” she smiled, “May I help you?”

 Sherlock was caught off guard for a moment, but gradually found his voice, “I'm... looking for John Watson...” he trailed off, noticing a great number of boxes littering the hall and ground behind her.

“Oh. Right, um...” she frowned, glancing back at the disastrous flat, “Well he moved. A few days ago.” Her eyes looked Sherlock up and down and she smiled fondly, “Are you a friend of his?”

He nodded absently, mind already racing with possibilities as to where John had gone. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” She repeated with a bright smile. Her exclamation brought his attention back to her, as she shuffled back into her flat, disappeared for two minutes, before returning with a small box. It had his name on it. “Doctor Watson left this for you.” she offered him the box, “He said if you didn't stop by once we'd settled in to simply put it by the skip.”

Sherlock reluctantly accepted the box and nodded, “Thanks...” he said distractedly, already heading down the steps. But a thought struck him, and he turned, “You don't happen to know where Doctor Watson has moved to, do you?”

“No. Sorry.” She frowned sympathetically, shaking her head. “He seemed- … well... rather anxious to get out. Shame. It's a lovely flat.” Nodding to the teenager, the woman closed the door.

He looked down at the box, and saw his name was indeed written on the side of it; scrawled in John's familiar handwriting. He opened one side of the box, and noticed it was full of the things he'd left in the flat, including his skull. Sherlock took a deep breath, and placed the box down on the bottom step – moving to sit himself down on the next one up.

The young man then pulled out his mobile, and began to text...

 

  _I need your help. SH_

_There are four words I never thought you would address to me. MH_

_Mycroft. SH  
_

_...Come by my office, Sherlock. A car has already been deployed to pick you up. MH_


	10. Only Four Years

 

 

**4 years later**

 

 

Sherlock winced as he tugged off his shirt, hissing as he noticed the wound; a thin trail of blood slowly drizzling down his side. A familiar pair of dog tags clinked gently against his chest as the clothing was tossed aside carelessly. He opened the bathroom cupboard and pulled out his first-aid kit, along with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a flannel. The twenty-three year old scattered the items onto the sink ledge as he searched for what he needed; needle and thread, wipes, scissors.  
  


“ _You should take them off, you know...”  
  
_

He grabbed some of the sterilized wipes, and began trying to clean up the blood from the bullet graze he'd sustained. The damn suspect he'd been chasing had been armed; something he _hadn't_ accounted for (not that he would make that mistake again in the future). He would have to try and acquire a weapon or two of his own... perhaps revisit the boxing classes he once took when he was younger.  
  


“ _What?”  
  
_

He had lost Lestrade somewhere in the confusion. The detective had slowly begun to include Sherlock in some of his cases. At first, it was merely chatter. He would run into the older man occasionally, and they would feign interest in one another with short greetings. But it was only when Lestrade had begun talking about a particular case he was working on; one that had him stumped... that Sherlock's interest began to pique. 

“ _The dog tags.”  
  
_

The genius took to consulting the other; telling him where to look and what for. After the case had finished - and Lestrade had confirmed (even thanked him for) the help and pointers Sherlock had given him - he began to consult with the Detective on a more regular basis. Focusing on crime and puzzles was keeping him more entertained now than he had been in the past four years.

“ _...No. They're mine.”  
  
_

Four years. It felt like a lifetime ago when he'd last spoken to John. Sherlock's thoughts were thrown off track a bit as he growled through the sting; the alcohol burned his wound, but he bore through it, and began to thread the needle.

It had been relatively easy to find his ex-professor. It had only taken him five months after he'd graduated to locate where John had moved. Though Mycroft had been no help whatsoever... Sherlock had quickly learned the value of the homeless population in London. They were a reliable network, and if bribed correctly, could be his eyes and his ears all over the city. He'd spent three months simply gaining their trust – and it was a mere _two_ months after that - that the network had located Doctor Watson.  
  


“ _Given what those tags represent, and_ _ **who**_ _gave them to you... you certainly do not deserve to keep them around your neck. Not when you've ruined a war veteran's reputation.”  
  
_

Mycroft had heard about the scandal, and had been disappointed (perhaps even a tad disgusted) with his sibling's behaviour. When Sherlock had first asked for his help in locating John, the eldest Holmes had refused him without a second thought. He believed it was best that their 'relationship' had come to an end; that clearly, Sherlock wasn't mature enough to engage in such matter.

“ _Shut up!”_

It had been a long shot going to his brother for help. He knew that. Mycroft had an insufferable urge to try and protect him from everything while cleaning up what messes he could. But this time, he had placed the blame purely on Sherlock (with good reason). So it didn't matter if John had made Sherlock happy... and it didn't matter that the young genius had been on a good track to stabilizing his life and his behaviour. All that mattered was that Sherlock had brought this mess upon _himself_.  
  


“ _I cannot- … rather,_ _ **will not**_ _... clean up your mess. Not this time.” Mycroft said sternly from behind his desk, “Losing someone you came to care for is simply the price you pay for engaging in sport with the likes of Jim Moriarty. I suggest you quit while you're ahead... and spare ruining someone else's life just to prove you're clever.”  
_

_Sherlock glared at him; teeth clenched so tightly together it was a wonder they didn't all crack in half, “I have no brother.” he snarled defiantly, wanting to inflict some of the inner pain he felt on Mycroft. Who else was he going to take it out on, otherwise?  
_

“ _You also have no lover. No friend, either.” The elder countered calmly, picking up a pen as he began to write notes in a sizable folder, “Which means, you're putting yourself in a difficult spot by severing our ties. I suggest you rethink it.”  
  _

_The teen didn't answer. He simply trembled with suppressed rage, before storming out of the office. Mycroft glanced up at his younger brother, taking a pause to watch his retreat, before he shook his head – and went back to work.  
  
_

He missed John's smile. His eyes. His smell. His touch. He missed the flat (their flat, as he still chose to remember it). He missed the jumpers and gentle social scoldings. He missed the praise and the affection.

It was painful to think about. More painful than the wound he was currently attempting to stitching up. He'd lost the only other person on this planet who could tolerate him... befriend him... love him. Of course he and John had never gotten to the 'L-word'. They had been close, but Sherlock had stopped the relationship short with his foolish wager.

The five hundred pounds he'd gotten from Jim had come and gone, and now, he was back at square one. The money seemed so trivial now.

He would have rather lost the bet, kept John, and paid Jim the five hundred pounds with added on incentive to never contact him again, and to never mention their bet. Perhaps neither scenario would have worked; John would have found out eventually, and been just as hurt. Of course his pride might still be in tact.

When he finished, Sherlock tossed the needle back into the first-aid box, and lifted his arm to look at the shabbily stitched wound on his side. It would do.

 

 

 

“Right then, I'm off.” Heather popped her head in, giving John a warm smile. “You staying late again?”

He looked up from behind his desk; littered with x-rays, files and books, but there was still an organization to the chaos. “Yeah. I've got some paperwork to finish up,” he smiled back, “then I'm back on. I promised Mark I'd sub in for him tonight.”

“Of course. He's got that big date.” She giggled, shaking her head a bit, “Well. Don't work too hard.”

John nodded, “Have a good night, Heather.” he turned back to his work as she closed his office door again.

He'd been working at St. Mary's Hospital for the past year and a half now. It had been hard starting this 'new' chapter in his life for several reasons. He had to move from a flat he loved. He got chopped from a job he rather enjoyed. His reputation was ruined; more of a laughing stock, than anything else. The relationship (or rather, what he'd _thought_ was a relationship) he had with Sherlock hadn't panned out the way he'd imagined; the teen had betrayed his trust in the worst way, and didn't seem to understand why John had been so upset.

Mike Stamford had heard of course, and was gracious enough to help John land a job at St. Mary's. Shortly after, he was able to find a break in terms of a room, and managed to get into a rent-controlled flat on Craven Road near Paddington Station. Clara had been a lifesaver, and John was thankful he'd always kept in touch with her, despite her troubles with Harry. It was perfect distance from the hospital where he could walk to work each morning and home each evening... and close enough to the tube that if he had to venture elsewhere, it was an easy commute.

It felt almost serendipitous. Everything had fallen into place, and the only thing that felt lost was... Sherlock's presence. It was infuriating. He shouldn't care about the other man; _he shouldn't think about him, he shouldn't miss him or his arrogant posh tone, or his deep laugh, or his pout, or the way he scrunched his nose sometimes if something confused him, or the way he would nudge his way into John's lap for a cuddle, or the way he poured over the morning paper with such focus... but sleepy eyes..._

John shook his head and stopped those thoughts. _Dammit_ , he cursed. Four years. He shouldn't be thinking about that manipulative son of a bitch.

Closing his last few files, John added them to the to-be-completed pile, and stood up. He tugged and readjusted his white coat, and slipped his mobile into his pocket as he headed out – closing the door behind him. He wasn't really expecting a busy night. In fact the only reason John had agreed to cover for Mark was because Mondays were traditionally fairly dull.

So one could imagine John's surprise when he arrived at reception to see two of the nurses chattering away with a sense of urgency in hushed, quick tones. They stopped dead when they saw John approach, and one sighed in relief, “Oh Doctor Watson... good.” she smiled nervously, “Um... we've a patient. He needs to see you.”

“Ok...” he drew out, quirking his brow, “Is there any reason you're both acting so skittish?” John asked.

One nurse glanced toward the other, and she huffed, “Well he's a bit... difficult.” she hesitated, before continuing, “He's already diagnosed himself. Says it's just an infection, and is insisting that he just be given the proper antibiotics and sent on his way. He doesn't seem too keen on speaking with a doctor.”

“Well.” John huffed, picking up the scribbled paperwork that, evidently, the walk-in patient had half-heartedly filled out, “If he wants antibiotics, then he'll let me take a look. Which room?”

The nurse gestured down the hall, “One-fifteen.”

John nodded and headed down in that direction. Great. A problem-patient was all he needed right now. _Probably some arrogant sod who hurt himself doing something incredibly stupid, and didn't want the humiliation of explaining it to a doctor..._ he concluded with an internal sigh. Reaching the room, John gave a sharp knock, before entering. “Evening.” he greeted absently, still glancing over the messy paperwork the patient had scribbled over. “I'm Doctor Watson. I understand you... have....”

His voice trailed off and came to an immediate halt as he looked up to see Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes.

John looked back down at the paperwork; the name had been left blank. Naturally. He knew the young man would be too irritated and stubborn to include any vital information like name, severity of the injury, or emergency contact. Sherlock looked just as surprised to see John, but recovered more quickly, allowing a frown of confusion to fall on his lips. “...You don't normally work the night shift.” he pointed out with a small pout.

“I'm covering for someone else.” John answered immediately, “I don't have a shift tomor- … hang on. How the fuck do _you_ know what _I_ normally work?” he demanded crisply.

Sherlock didn't answer, and instead, had the good sense to actually look a bit sheepish. “This is infected.” he muttered quietly, lifting his arm to show John a poorly bandaged up wound on his side.

He wanted to refuse. God in heaven, he wanted so _badly_ to just let Sherlock have it, and then assign him another doctor. But deep down, he knew that wouldn't happen. He would treat Sherlock, and he would remain professional, and _prove_ that he was definitely over him and their past together. John set the clipboard down, and moved closer; pursing his lips together as he tenderly removed the bandage to get a look at the wound.

“...Yes it is.” he murmured in agreement, furrowing his brow in concentration as he went into 'doctor-mode' and grabbed a few tools and some gauze to help him clean the wound, and remove some of the puss. “Hold your arm up.” he instructed, “And stay still.”

There was an uncomfortable silence that hovered around them while John worked. Actually, he preferred the silence. Sherlock was rather adept at conversation – that is, leading and spinning a 'harmless little chat' to get to the topics he was _really_ curious about – and John knew he would fall for the lure once it was baited in front of him.

“How did this happen?” he asked as his eyes drifted over the wound; it was a familiar sight, but certainly not a wound he expected to see on Sherlock. “This is a bullet graze.”

Sherlock's eyes shone a bit as he looked down at John, “Well deduced. I knew you'd get it.” he smiled.

“Answer the question.” John snapped crisply. “It's a bullet graze and deep _enough_ that you needed stitches – and yet, instead of going to a hospital or clinic to get it looked at, you clearly thought it would be a _good_ idea to try and stitch it up yourself. A shite job of it, too.” he scolded.

The younger man didn't seem to deterred, but rather, smiled a bit more. As if John scolding him was something he'd been longing to hear for a while. John tried not to think about what that could mean. Sherlock had gotten taller, and certainly had grown into his looks more. Regrettably, he was stunning; a bit on the thin side, and he had bags under his eyes... but still, stunning. Taller too, which John silently cursed.

“I've been assisting Lestrade with some of his casework. Helping him when he's out of his depth... a... consultant, of sorts.” Sherlock explained smoothly; eyes still alight with their usual, energetic spark.

John frowned, cutting away and tugging out the ragged stitch job so he could redo it. “Lestrade?... You- … you still speak with him?”

“Of course.” Sherlock gestured dismissively, “He's the only 'in' I have with the Yard at this point. He-” the genius hissed in pain, flinching as John finished clearing away the last bit of thread from his sewing attempt. “He's not completely useless.” Sherlock finished, moving his eyes back to watch John at work. It was definitely a sight he'd missed. “You look rather dashing. A distinguished thirty-year old. I knew you would be.”

John clenched his jaw, “I'm thirty-two. And it's only been four years. People don't change _that_ much in four years.” he argued petulantly.

“I've changed.” the genius stated boldly.

“You've grown taller and a bit broader in the shoulders.” John replied tensely, “But I've no doubt you're still as manipulative as you were the day I left you.”

That quieted Sherlock rather quickly. John felt a brief sense of satisfaction from it, but unfortunately, it was followed by a wave of guilt. _Fuck_ , he cursed. Why did he have to feel guilty? Sherlock deserved that, and a hell of a lot more for turning John's life upside down. “Hell of a coincidence. You... showing up here, out of every hospital and clinic in London.”

“It's good to see you.” came the immediate reply.

“If I didn't know any better,” John continued, ignoring Sherlock's evasive answer, “I'd say you _knew_ I worked here. You didn't look all that surprised to see me.”

Sherlock didn't respond to that, which only irked John more. He paused mid-stitch, and looked up to the genius – who was staring right back at him, calm and composed, with something mischievous lingering behind those icy blue eyes of his. John sighed, already working it out for himself. “Christ. And how long have you known?”

“About a year.” Sherlock finally spoke, offering his ex-lover an impish smile. “I'm rather pleased with myself, actually. I had manged to resist the temptation to announce myself to you. Tonight was, of course, purely a coincidence. Had I known you had taken a graveyard shift, I would have tried to walk to the next clinic in the hopes of avoiding confrontation. But it would seem that fate had other plans.”

“You managed to _resist_ the temptation to announce yourself to me?” John repeated in disbelief. “And how exactly do you think that would have gone over? ...'Oh _hello_ John! I know you changed your number, left your job and moved out of your flat to get away from me, but I was in the neighbourhood and thought I'd pop in to let you know I've been stalking you, even though you said you _never_ wanted to see me again'.” he mimicked.

Sherlock frowned, “Well... 'never' is quite a long time. Bit extreme.”

“No. No, it's really not.” John snapped, shaking his head as he finished re-stitching Sherlock's wound. He clipped the thread, and gave it another once over, before he moved away and tossed his medical gloves into the garbage. “You should be alright now. I've cleaned it up, and re-stitched the wound. I'm going to prescribe some antibiotics just to be on the safe side.” he explained, writing some notes on Sherlock's paperwork.

“Well done.” Sherlock hummed in approval as he pulled his shirt back down and slipped on his coat, “I always knew you were a competent doctor. Much better than any of the others I've encountered in London. Rubbish, the lot of them...” he began to rant, taking a few steps toward John. “Since, predictably, helping the Yard with some of their cases is going to get me into a number of scrapes... perhaps I could make you my official doctor. I don't trust anyone else to do a good job of it.”

John shot the younger man a glare, “Not happening.” he stuck his pen back into the pocket of his coat, “And if you're going to be helping the Yard, I'm going to have a word with Greg. He clearly doesn't understand how close of an eye he _needs_ to keep on you. Stop getting into 'scrapes' that involve bullet grazes.”

“But then I won't have any excuse to see you.” Sherlock pointed out simply, grazing his fingers over John's hand as he moved closer.

The doctor batted his hand away, “I'm _not_ your doctor. You're _not_ my patient.”

“John.” the deep baritone purred.

“No, Sherlock.” he continued, trying to put a bit more heat behind his voice, “You came close to ruining my life the last time we interacted with one another, and I was perpetually lied to for nearly a year. Finding out where I work doesn't mean you've won the prize of being able to befriend me again.” John adjusted his med coat and opened the door. “Go to the reception desk and they will give you the antibiotics. Have a good evening.” he nodded crisply, before disappearing.

The genius huffed, and followed – looking up and down the hallway until his eyes landed on John, who had quickly retreated to a safe distance, and soon, disappeared around the corner. Sherlock smiled a bit, and headed back toward the reception desk to get his meds. That interaction had gone better than Sherlock expected. He was pleased to see there was still a lingering hint of fondness in John's eyes. Or at least, what he perceived to be fondness. It could be sadness... but he'd rather not think about that. It would just take time. Everything could be fixed, or made right, with time.

 

 

 

 

You'll be happy to know I'm healing nicely, thanks to your medical expertise.

 

Oh. That's good to hear. JW

 

Sorry, who is this? JW

 

… SH

 

Sherlock. JW

 

John. SH

 

How the hell did you get this number? JW

 

It certainly wasn't easy. SH

 

I had to utilize my homeless network and find a woman who could act convincingly over the phone. SH

 

She called the hospital under the guise of your sister and asked for your mobile. SH

 

Jesus Christ. JW

 

Well... you wouldn't give it to me. SH

 

There was a very good reason for that. JW

 

I don't want to interact with you. JW

 

We don't have to interact yet. SH

 

Just texting is fine. SH

 

No, not 'yet', Sherlock. _Ever_. JW

 

It was four years ago, John. SH

 

I told you I've changed. SH

 

You understand I find that hard to believe when you deviously get some woman to call the hospital pretending to be my _sister_ with an emergency, JUST so you can get my mobile number. JW

 

...I thought maybe you'd find it clever. SH

 

I don't. I find it intrusive. JW

 

Noted. SH

 

I won't do it again. SH

 

I've some good news. SH

 

You're going to leave me alone? JW

 

Well... no. SH

 

I've some news, then. SH

 

Lestrade has informed me he's got some perplexing murders surfacing. SH

 

Well, I say murders, but... SH

 

Two suicides. SH

 

Suicides aren't murder. JW

 

Yes, but if one or two more occur in the same fashion, it's murder. SH

 

Fingers crossed. SH

 

...Fingers _crossed_ ?! JW

 

I realize how horrid that sounds, but you get what I mean. SH

 

The sad thing is that I do. JW

 

And I'm done speaking with you. JW

 

Very well. I'll text you if I hear something. SH

 

Don't bother. JW

 

I'm not involved. JW

 

I'd like you to be. SH

 

I don't care, Sherlock. JW

 

We're not together. JW

 

We're not friends, we're not lovers, we're nothing. JW

 

[no reply]

 

Sorry, but... I can't trust you. Not after what happened. JW

 

I'm determined to make it up to you. SH

 

To prove that you were _always_ more than a foolish bet. SH

 

Not necessary. JW

 

Goodbye, Sherlock. JW

 

Have a good day, John. SH

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to skip ahead four years for the purposes of moving the story along :) Forgive any errors - haven't had a chance to proof read yet, but I wanted to get it posted before work. Enjoy!


	11. Restructure, Rebuild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. I'm way overdue on an update, I know. My life has just been a bit crazy. I hope you enjoy this chapter :) Won't be long now

 

 

He wasn't going to catch a break. That much was clear.

But he had to give the younger man credit; he certainly did _not_ give up easily. Sherlock (despite John's request) continued to text him. It was low key at first, maybe one text per day. That soon escalated to a couple texts a day, then frequent texts, until finally, John had to wonder if there was anything going on in the course of the genius' life that he _didn't_ hear about. He got texts when Sherlock was bored, when he was meeting with his brother, when he was doing experiments, when he couldn't sleep at night, when he was walking or cabbing somewhere...

There were times John had to actually turn _off_ his mobile. And when he rebooted it, there were always about thirty-to-forty new texts waiting for him.

He tried to be strong. He didn't answer most of Sherlock's texts in the hope that the boy would stop. John did, however, have to resort to answering one or two, and usually, got drawn into a conversation with Sherlock despite his efforts. Thankfully he had a good, steady job that provided a good distraction for him.

Currently, John was on his lunch break. The doctor had ventured down from the hospital and across the street to a nice little cafe. They served great food, and the establishment had quickly become a favourite of the staff that worked at St. Mary's. It had been a fairly pleasant day, all things considered, and pretty tame. A few flu bugs, a broken finger, and some allergy tests had him feeling nice and content for his break.

That was, until, he saw a familiar mop of dark curls slip through the front door.

He stared blankly for a moment; the long coat, the pale skin and thin frame. Those damn piercing eyes (though Sherlock's left was marred with a particularly dark black eye). He locked eyes with John, and the doctor sighed, looking down at his half-eaten club sandwich, chips and coffee. By the time he counted down from ten-to-one in his head, the genius was by his side.

“John.” he greeted with an impish smile.

The blonde pursed his lips together and looked up at his ex. “What are you doing here?” he asked bluntly; _no sense in beating around the bush with the lad_.

“I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I would pop in for a... bite.” Sherlock mused, looking around as if the space genuinely intrigued him.

John clenched and unclenched his hand into a fist as he sighed, “You. Pop in for a _bite_?” he repeated with a slight scoff, “Not bloody likely. It was always a battle to get you to eat, even on the best of days.”

“Feeling a bit peckish. It _happens_ sometimes.” Sherlock grunted, a faint blush tainting his pale cheeks. “I'll just take a seat here, shall I? All the other tables are full. Oh. That looks good.” the younger man rattled off quickly, sweeping himself down into the seat opposite John – while simultaneously nicking a few of his chips.

“Sherlock...”

“Work has been going well, I take it? You seem rather relaxed. You're having a good day.” he deduced.

John rubbed his eyes, “I _was_ , yes.”

“Oh rubbish. I know you secretly enjoy seeing me. It's been four years.” Sherlock waved off, “That is an adequate time for you to get over my mistake.”

“ _Betrayal_ , Sherlock. It was a betrayal. And a big one.” John corrected firmly.

The younger man had the decency to at least look a bit ashamed for a moment, before he straightened up. “It _was_ a mistake. A big one, yes, I agree. But as I mentioned before, in our previous meetings, I am prepared to do whatever I can to make it up to you.”

John sighed and rested his elbows on the table as he crossed his arms, “For the last time... I'm not g-”

“ _Don't_.” Sherlock interrupted. The doctor looked up, ready to snarl right back at him– but the look on his face stopped John. Sherlock looked ruffled; sad, desperate even. “ _Don't_ tell me there's nothing I can do. Don't tell me there's no path to forgiveness, and don't restate how stubborn you are, or how I missed my chance.” he listed rapidly, “That isn't you. You're a fair man. You believe in second chances. If you didn't, you would have cut your alcoholic sister Harriet out of your life for good the first time she relapsed. How many times has it been now? Four? Six?”

John grit his teeth, “ _Enough_.” he whispered harshly, glancing around to see if anyone he knew was sitting nearby. This wasn't exactly shaping up to be a conversation he wanted overheard.

“It's a good point. You know it is.” Sherlock pressed, “And I know you're already coming up with an excuse; you're separating Harriet and I. She is family, I am not. But _we_ shared something, John. You cannot tell me you didn't feel it. I know you. It _meant_ something to you, and it meant something to me. Look!” He fumbled open his coat and pushed his scarf aside to reach around his neck – and show the dog tags he still wore around his neck. “I haven't taken them off. Not once.”

Now _that_ startled him. John hadn't expected Sherlock to keep his dogtags, much less wear them every day for the past four years. The blonde watched as his ex maneuvered the tags back beneath his shirt, with a suspiciously narrowed gaze, “You can't have them back.” Sherlock added as an afterthought.

“I won't- ... I'm not asking for them back.” he muttered, shaking his head. He licked his lips in thought, wondering how to navigate this conversation now. Sherlock had poured his heart out (as much as he was capable), and despite how hurt he had been... or still was... John knew the genius had a point. Everyone deserved a second chance. Sherlock was young, and he did seem like he regretted his actions. Did that mean he trusted him? Absolutely not. He didn't. Couldn't. Not yet.

But that didn't mean he couldn't be civil.

“What happened to your eye?” John asked, taking a sip of his now cold coffee before picking up the remains of his sandwich.

Sherlock's eyes brightened, and he nicked a few more chips from John's plate, “Bit of a feisty suspect, I'm afraid. I'd been tailing him for days. Contacted Lestrade once I had enough evidence; caught the man in question attempting to smuggle a shipment of drugs to the East end.” he boasted. “Let's just say he wasn't incredibly happy to be caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie-jar.”

“So you confronted him and got in a fight? Not smart.” John shook his head, “You could've been seriously hurt. What if he had been armed?”

Sherlock waved him off, “I'd taken that into consideration, obviously. A few bruises. Nothing more. Lestrade and his team arrived in time, as I knew they would. Scrapping with him simply bought some time.”

John huffed out a quiet laugh and shook his head. The two managed to have a semi-pleasant conversation after that, despite the underlying tension that still lingered in the air between them. John finished his coffee, while allowing Sherlock to pick the remainder of his meal off his plate. He kept the topics on the safe side; asking Sherlock what he'd been doing these past few years – how the rest of his school went. Turns out he even did a bit of traveling. Sherlock, on the other hand, continued to try and steer the conversation toward _them._ When he became more persistent, John ended their impromptu lunch-date, by standing and going to pay his bill. Sherlock followed like an eager puppy, still chattering away about the new flat he was staying in.

“You should come see it. It is quite brilliant. I currently have my lab set up in the kitchen... which, I know you wouldn't approve of, but it's efficient. I've also told my landlady all about you. She is quite eager to make your acquaintance, and will undoubtedly provide sweets. She is an exceptional baker.” Sherlock encouraged.

John smiled and accepted his change from the cashier, leaving a bit for tip. “Not sure that's a good idea.”

“No, it's a _fantastic_ idea.” the younger countered, shifting around John in a close hover as they walked out of the cafe. “You would like the flat. I know you would. Of course there would be a fair exchange; I should be permitted to see your flat. We can arrange s-”

John turned and cut the genius off by putting his hand right over Sherlock's mouth. “Hey. Take a breath.” he said, bordering his voice on stern and calm. To his credit, the young man did take a slow breath in through his nose, and then out again, keeping his eyes on John. “Sherlock, that's not going to happen. I want to make this perfectly clear,” he began rationally, “You were right before. You deserve a second chance. What you did was horrible and manipulative and cold, but... you _have_ apologized. And I'd like to think your over-eagerness is genuine.”

“I'm not over-eager.” Sherlock muttered as John removed his hand, ignoring the blush that crept up on his cheeks, “I just-...” he stopped himself, wondering how pathetic it would sound if he finished that sentence. _I just don't have anyone else to talk to? I just don't have anyone else who is interested in listening?_ “Nothing. Continue.” the dark-haired boy amended.

The doctor wasn't entirely convinced by his answer, it seemed, but continued regardless, “But I don't trust you. _Can't_ trust you, rather. Not yet. I think we- … it's best, I think, if we are just friends. You can text me, that's fine. But no more stalking. No more showing up where I work. We're reverting right back to where we started. You remember that?...”

Sherlock nodded reluctantly. Of course he remembered where they had started.

John had very limited contact with him, and everything was more... _formal._ He wanted to get right back into what he missed; sharing the same space, bickering lightly over tea and toast, crap telly, lounging entwined on the sofa, sleeping in the same bed, listening to John praise his genius, listening to John reprimand him halfheartedly about his bad habits, and everything else.

“I have to go back to work,” John sighed, glancing over toward the hospital before looking back at Sherlock. “It was really nice to see you, Sherlock, you- ...look well. I'm glad you're helping Lestrade with some cases. That seems right up your alley.” he smiled. “Though I'll still have to have a word with him about keeping an eye on you. I'd rather not have to look at your injuries each time we see each other.”

The genius smiled back, pleased to hear that there _was_ definitely a possibility that they would meet again. He would have to come up with another excuse to run into John; perhaps somewhere more social. He could do some research and find out where John liked to shop, or grab a pint, or eat dinner. “It was good to see you too, John.” he purred back with a mischievous grin. He held out his hand, offering a shake. John seemed a bit taken aback by the gesture, but smiled, and shook Sherlock's hand anyway.

That's when the consulting detective made his move. He ducked in, and quickly pecked John on the cheek, before briskly releasing the blonde's hand and walking in the opposite direction.

John was too stunned to move for a good five seconds. And by the time he snapped out of it and turned, Sherlock was already at the corner. The blonde groaned and shook his head – wanting to be more dubious, more _offended_ about the theft of that kiss...

But instead he felt something warm bubbling inside him. He smiled. “Nope. _No_.” he ordered himself, pushing that feeling away as he crossed the street toward St. Mary's.

 

 

 

 

 

Surprisingly, things were going better than he had anticipated. Sherlock had taken what John had said to heart. They continued to text, but he'd managed to get the young man down to about ten-to-twenty texts a day. At _most_. And while he hadn't expected to, John found he really _had_ missed chatting with the younger man. They seemed to slip back into their easy banter relatively quickly. Though he still made sure to steer the conversation away from the topic of 'them' anytime Sherlock ventured toward it. He was content with how things were. Texting allowed him to keep a certain amount of distance between them.

So when he was woken up to the sound of someone pounding frantically on his door... his heart dropped a bit. John reluctantly dragged himself out of bed and tossed a t-shirt over his head to accompany his pyjama pants, before he padded down the hall to the door. He opened it a little and groaned when he saw who it was.

“Sherlock.”

The genius smiled, practically vibrating with excessive energy, “John! Good! You're up.”

“No... no, no, no. No, Sherlock, I wasn't.” the older sighed, rubbing his eyes as he made sure to keep the door partially closed. He wasn't about to let the other slip inside. Then he would never leave. “I was asleep. Like you should be. Shit, it's almost 3am.”

Sherlock bounced on his feet like an impatient toddler, “Sleep is boring. I've just come back from another crime scene; I could certainly use your expertise and opinion, if you are interested. It's _fascinating_ , John. These murders- … well... 'suicides' according to the media and the Yard, but I know better. It's too coincidental that they all h-”

“Sherlock.” John interrupted sharply, “I don't want to help. I want to go back to sleep.” he paused, something occurring to him, “Hang on. I don't remember giving you my address. How do you know where I live?” The genius gave him a shy smile but didn't say anything. John sagged slightly against the door, “Christ. Sherlock, I _told_ you. I made it very clear; you are not supposed to show up unexpectedly like this.”

“You said I wasn't permitted to show up at your _work_. You said nothing about your flat.” Sherlock reminded him prissily.

John rolled his eyes, “Well I thought that would be implied. If I didn't want you showing up at my office, I certainly didn't want you showing up at my home. I also didn't think that would be an _issue_ since I never told you where I lived.”

“You're just tired. I'm sorry I interrupted your sleep.” Sherlock tried to soothe, nudging the door open a bit more in an attempt to slip through, “Why don't I make you some tea? I can tell you about these cases. We'll have a nice... chat.” he smiled.

Something in the doctor snapped then, and he pushed Sherlock back out of the door and into the hall, “I said NO, Sherlock!”

“John please! You can't begin to understand how p-”

“I don't want to know.”

Sherlock puckered his lips and took a deep breath through his nose, “There's no need to dwell on the past. You are supposed to be giving me a second chance, but I feel no further ahead than I was before. It's been four years!” he argued petulantly.

“Jesus, I don't see why the smartest man in London can't understand this. I – don't – _trust_ – you. How many times do you need me to say it?You don't have my trust.” John barked at him. “You lost it. And I can't possibly stay involved with a person who tricks and seduces me for sport.”

Sherlock's sharp eyes narrowed, and with a surge of strength, barreled back through the door and into John's flat – nearly colliding with the man himself, “Oh HELL! I _explained_ that!” Sherlock yelled, throwing his arms up in exasperation, “It's not how you start - it's how you finish, and once I had realized my error, my _only_ concern was ensuring that I found a way to spare your feelings **and** keep your company! Obviously that didn't work. Jim was a sore loser and knew that he could simultaneously ruin our relationship and get you fired.” Sherlock glared, pausing to take a breath, “The competition was over the moment we slept together, John. I _could_ have disappeared after that, but I stayed. I _stayed._ What does that tell you!?”

The doctor gaped at Sherlock. He was a little more than shocked by the outburst; it was so unlike Sherlock. He didn't even get a chance to answer, before Sherlock was snarling again, “You just GAVE UP! I didn't expect that from _you_ , John. It's as if our re- … what we _had_ meant nothing to you! I've been doing all the fighting! _I_ am the one trying to fix things, while you sit in this bachelor flat and lament all the wrongs I've done, how unfit and unfair I've been. It's infuriating!”

“Sherlock...” John held his hands up, narrowing his eyes at the twenty-three year old suspiciously. “You're shaking.”

Sherlock stopped his tirade and realized that, yes, he _was_ shaking. Rather a lot. He looked back to John, feeling some perspiration on his forehead. His hair felt damp too. John seemed to be sizing him up, no doubt cataloging his symptoms; pupils blown wide, clammy skin, bloodshot eyes.

Suddenly, Sherlock deeply regretted coming here.

“...What are you on?” the doctor asked carefully, though his voice was stern and clearly not in the mood for nonsense. “What are you _on_ , Sherlock?”

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock experienced a crash of guilt. It was just as strong as the day John had discovered his lie, his betrayal... but this was deeper. A throb of disappointment on a personal level. He was supposed to be making a good show of himself; demonstrating to John that he'd grown up and could be trusted. The drugs often made things easier - helped keep the voices of his unsettled genius at bay, and allowed him to stop thinking - if only for a little while. Unfortunately, in regards to John, they also made him a bit more emotional. He had not accounted for that.

Now faced with John's obvious concern, Sherlock did the only thing he could.

He turned and bolted from the room as quickly as possible.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John calling his name but he didn't look back, and instead, skidded down the steps and back out the doors.

John _did_ follow. It was late enough that being seen by anyone as he ran down the steps in his pyjamas was not a concern. But by the time he arrived at the front doors to his building, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. He took a few deep breaths of the chilly, evening air while he stood there, hoping to calm himself before slowly heading back in and up to his flat.

He was disappointed, sure. But more than anything, John was worried.

He knew Sherlock's habits, and knew that without proper guidance and support, that drugs were probably all the more tempting; a way for the genius to fill the time, or give him an energy boost. But what had really hit John deeply, was Sherlock's outburst.

He was right.

John _hadn't_ done anything to try and salvage their relationship. He gave up then and there. Part of him felt justified... since after all, it was a pretty devastating humiliation that he'd suffered at the hands of someone he thought he could trust.

Though Sherlock was still right. It had been four years, and the young man had been trying rather persistently to open up their lines of communication again. John had just been stubbornly attempting to squash any extended contact, giving little thought to how this might be affecting Sherlock. Maybe this was partially his fault. Maybe Sherlock was a bit high strung. He was out of school, living on his own (it would seem), and beginning to consult on some cases with the Yard.

Add on top of that a brilliant mind, and no companions, and...

“Shit.” John sighed.

Walking back into his bedroom, he picked up his mobile and began to text...

 

_I would like to see you. Tomorrow. JW_

_Give me your address. JW_

 

John got back into bed, but couldn't fall asleep. He was only able to lie there, lost in his thoughts until finally – as daylight began to warm the night sky again – he received an answer,

 

_221b Baker Street. SH_


	12. Update

I apologize for my extreme lateness!

This fic will be updated on Saturday (promise) - and will have one final chapter update after that (tbd).

I had the story complete, but the more I read over it - the more I wasn't happy with it - so I decided to completely rewrite the last two chapters :s

But THEN came the writers block part way through, and constant internal back and forth debate with myself on how I wanted to wrap things up (an unhappy ending was tempting me for a while)

I have finally made a solidified decision, so we will wrap this up :)

Thanks for everyone's patience! <3

(This message will be deleted on Saturday)


	13. Old Habits

 

He arrived at 221b Baker Street just after eleven am.

Quite a central little spot; well kept, bustling street, close to the action. He could see why Sherlock liked it. There was a small sandwich shop next door to the flat; John couldn't help but wonder if it was any good (if he and Sherlock got to be on good terms again, he'd have to try it). He took a moment to take a few deep breaths as he stared at the door. He'd had all night to toss and turn over his decision to visit Sherlock.

Last night's little episode a big determining factor... but not the _only_ factor.

Sherlock probably had a small drug addiction. Sherlock likely didn't have many friends. Sherlock preferred his own company. Isolated by his genius. _See? Lots of reasons to consent to a visit._ John just wasn't about to admit the simplest one yet.

He'd missed Sherlock.

“Right then.” John murmured to himself, stepping up to the door. He rang the bell.

Not ten seconds later, an older woman opened up – and gave him a bright smile. “Yes, dear?” she greets, “Are you here about the basement flat? Bit late, I'm afraid. I was down there the other day, and found a pair of _shoes_ just sitting in the middle of the floor. Can you believe it?... I might have a squatter. Best not to rent just yet in case it has to be dealt with.” she informed him with a sigh.

“Uh, no.... What? No.” John frowned, shaking his head, “Sorry, there must be some mistake. I'm- ... looking for Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh!” the woman laughed, shaking her head, “Of course! ....Well, not 'of course'. No one ever comes to visit Sherlock, except that grey-haired gentlemen. And his brother. Come in, come in.” she gestured, shooing him inside before she followed and closed the door behind him. “I'm Mrs. Hudson. The landlady. Sherlock's upstairs,” she smiled, “Working on another one of his 'cases', I think. But he's due for a break. I swear, that young man runs on tea alone.”

John nodded – oddly intrigued and bemused by Mrs. Hudson. “I'll just go up then, shall I?” he smiled, beginning to make his way up the stairs.

“I'll pop 'round with some tea.” Mrs. Hudson called after him.

He ascended the stairs, and wasn't as surprised as he should have been to see Sherlock already standing in the doorway by the landing. He was fidgeting a bit; like he didn't know how to hold himself. “I... heard your voice.” he spoke, clearing his throat. “You met Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yeah. Yup.” John hummed, walking up a little more to stand directly across from Sherlock, “Seems nice. If anyone needs a good mother figure in their life, it's you.” he teased dryly, stepping past Sherlock to look around the place.

The genius huffed and rolled his eyes, “I have a perfectly _fine_ mother-figure, John. Father too. They just understand how important the WORK is, and leave me in peace!” he exclaimed, a spark coming back to his eyes. “Which is what I'm in the middle of right now. So make yourself at home,” he gestured, spinning back dramatically to swan into the kitchen.

John glanced in to see the kitchen was – in fact – more like a laboratory. Just as Sherlock had said. He quirked a brow, wondering how Mrs. Hudson felt about that, before he continued his exploration.

It was all very... Sherlock.

The mismatched furniture (that somehow still went well together), the piles and clutters of books, papers, notebooks, newspapers. A couple abandoned cups of tea. A dagger stabbed into a stack of mail on the mantelpiece, and - .... John sighed. The skull. Memories with Sherlock came flooding back at the mere sight of it, when it had once sat on _their_ mantlepiece in John's old flat. He seemed to linger on it, more than any other part, before continuing.

When he looked toward Sherlock, he saw the younger man immediately look away – a furiously focused (and slightly pouting) look on his face as he peered into the microscope. John smiled. _Embarrassed for being caught staring_ , he supposed.

“It's a nice flat. Definitely looks like you've made it your own.” he complimented, wandering into the other room, “I was going to ask for tea, but... don't think I'd fancy ingesting anything prepared in this kitchen.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You won't have to. Mrs. Hudson shall be arriving with tea within the next six minutes,” he announced, suddenly bounding up from the table to retreat into the sitting room. John followed, hands behind his back as he watched Sherlock slump into what (he presumed) was his usual favourite chair. The one across from it looked less used – but... somehow certainly more suited toward John's own personal taste. It looked comfy.

He took a seat, and looked at the young man expectantly. 

Sherlock, for the most part, seemed to be making an effort to ignore him. It was odd, but... not surprising.

John figured that Sherlock had pestered him so much, and focused on ways to convince John to come by – that he hadn't actually prepared himself on how to behave once he managed it.  
  
It was so very 'Sherlock' of him to do so, and... endearing... at the same time.

“So?” John prompted after a few minutes of silence.

Sherlock hummed, a question in his tone – but no actual words. So John continued, “You've got what you wanted. I'm here. I've come.” he pressed casually, eyes still filtering across the room.

“Oh please,” the younger man scoffed, “You're only here because of last night. You've not come on your own free will, or out of any true desire to see me. You're 'checking in'...”

John stared at him, “That's not true, Sherlock. You know it's not.” he hesitated for a moment, eyes moving around the apartment a bit, “Last night-... well... didn't _help_ necessarily.” the doctor looked back at him, “What were you on?”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock replied, back on his feet and fluttering around the sitting room. “I'm onto something _big_ here John. As I suspected – they're not suicides. Murders. There's some connection, but _where_?!” he snarled, looking at a series of photos (both autopsy and surveillance, it appeared) that were tacked onto a large map of London.

John sighed, realizing that Sherlock likely wouldn't talk about last night. Whether he would just try to 'delete' it, or deny he had a problem at all.

“If you're busy, I can go.” he offered, standing and walking over to the overflowing desk to take a peek. His curiosity _was_ beginning to get the best of him. John had to admit to himself that there was a certain energy about Sherlock that was infectious. It intrigued him, and made him want to follow along. It was bizarre. He'd never felt that way about someone else. So why did he have to be so enamoured with Sherlock bloody Holmes? Especially after everything that had happened?...

Sherlock spun back to him with an almost comical frown, “What? No. Why? You need to help me. I require a medical opinion.”

“Medical opinion on _what_ exactly?” John asked, flipping through a file from St. Barts. “They're suicides. And they happened days ago, I'm sure anything I could tell you is old news- ...Are you _allowed_ to take these?” he held up the folder, “These are confidential.”

Sherlock groaned and stomped over, snatching the folder back petulantly, “I happen to know someone who works in the morgue.”

“Of course you do.” John tried not to smile.

A silence fell over them, and the doctor noticed it immediately. It wasn't awkward or intense, but rather... familiar. Comfortable. He peered up a bit at Sherlock (damn, he hoped the genius would stop growing soon) and saw the other looking at him with such pure focus. It had been a long time since he'd felt the power of those icy orbs staring directly into his soul. He felt a slight tug on his jacket sleeve, and realized Sherlock had reached up to grasp at it with his fingers. The younger opened his mouth as if to speak-

“Hoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson's voice cut through their wordless moment as she bustled into the room with a chipper smile and serving tray, “I've got a nice spot of tea for you boys.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled something beneath his breath as he released John and moved away, “ _Impeccable_ timing as always, Mrs. Hudson.”

John smiled and followed to fix himself a cuppa. It would have been an opportune time to take his leave. Staying this close to Sherlock was dangerous. And while he'd made the decision to make a more conscious effort to forgive his ex-lover, and move on from the mistakes made – he wasn't prepared to jump 'back into bed' (so to speak) so quickly.

Sherlock still had some learning and growing up to do.

Now, maybe John could help. Use their experiences, their history, as a lesson on how a person should treat others; how they should consider their feelings, and take into account that their actions had repercussions to the ones they care about.

So he stays for a little while.  
  
He chats with Mrs. Hudson, and slips back into his familiar banter with Sherlock (seeming to naturally pick up from where they'd left off years ago), all the while watching Sherlock flutter about attempting to connect the dots of this case he was working on. The visit is eventually interrupted by Lestrade. John is surprised to see him at first, but remembers that Sherlock _did_ mention he'd kept in touch with the other man. They chat for a bit, before Sherlock insists there is 'work' to be done, and their 'inane droning' is suited for 'another time and place'. 

John _was_ a bit tempted to stay (especially with Sherlock's badgering insistence that John could be useful in this investigation) – but ultimately decided to take his leave.

Working with Sherlock would mean getting back into his life much more steadily than he'd intended at this point. That hurt still lingered beneath the surface. And John wasn't entirely convinced that Sherlock wouldn't hurt him again. So, he would befriend the younger man again... like before.... but keep a stronger resolve when it came to staying friendly, rather than intimate.

Sherlock had been right, though. He _had_ been trying, and John should give him more of a chance to prove he'd changed for the better.  
  
Which is why, on his way out – when Sherlock politely demanded: “Dinner? - John had agreed. Shortly after John left Baker Street, he received a text from Sherlock with instructions to meet him at Angelo's at seven o'clock.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was a no show.  


It should piss him off. Royally. And to be honest, it did... but... something was off.  


It didn't make any sense that the other man would pester him for weeks and weeks (actually, pester him ever since they'd ended their relationship) – and then _not_ show up. He wondered if the genius was wrapped up in his work, so John tried a few texts, but didn't hear anything back.

  
After almost an hour, John took his leave and hailed a cab to swing by his place. He's got that feeling in his gut; that feeling that something's happened, and Sherlock is in trouble. It's the only explanation. A small voice inside John's head reminds him that it's possible Sherlock is playing him for a fool again - but he shakes that away almost immediately. There's no time to think like that. After everything Sherlock has done, up until now, he seems to genuinely want John's trust back. He wouldn't throw that away on a missed dinner.

  
Just before he leaves, John eyes a small box at the bottom of his closet, and hesitates for only a second - before retrieving his gun from it. He loads the weapon, and tucks it along his back, ensuring his coat is pulled down just enough to cover it. With his adrenaline pumping and senses on high alert, John feels a rush like he hasn't in _years_ as he grabs another cab to head back to Sherlock's.

  
But just before he reaches the flat, John spots Sherlock standing outside his home.

  
“Stop.” he instructs the cabbie... who dutifully pulls off to the side to loiter. John watches curiously.

  
Sherlock looked... stiff. Uncomfortable. He didn't appear to be moving or speaking, but there was a cab in front of him. Someone inside, too.  
  
Something was just off about his body language. The ex-professor frowned, and saw Sherlock take a few steps closer. _Speaking to the cabbie?_ John shifted in his seat, and nearly got out to go interrupt them – when Sherlock opened the door, and hesitantly slid into the back seat of the car.

“...Follow that cab, alright mate? There'll be a good tip in it for you.” he muttered, eyes watching the other vehicle like a hawk.

The cabbie didn't say anything, but nodded again, and pulled off to tail behind the other.

John took out his mobile, and texted Sherlock:

 

Where are you? JW

Sherlock, seriously. Answer. JW

Are you in some kind of trouble? JW

 

He got nothing back. Either Sherlock's mobile had been confiscated, or he'd turned it off. He pursed his lips, and turned his eyes back toward the cab they were following.  
  
What he really didn't expect was to wind up at some college buildings. It looked like a campus library? Perhaps a few other lecture halls? ...Certainly not a main campus, but part of a university at least. There were placards and student fliers tacked onto some of the nearby posts and gates.  
  
As Sherlock's cab turns in, and begins to head toward one of the buildings - John tells his cabbie to let him out just outside the perimeters. He pays the man, and soon, is left on the dark street alone.

  
Checking that his weapon is still in place, John heads past the entry gates, and carefully begins to work his way closer to the buildings. He spots the cab almost immediately in the empty lot - and takes some cover alongside the neighbouring building. He stops and holds his breath as he sees Sherlock emerge from the car; face still unreadable, body language taunt and uncomfortable.

The cabbie gets out too, and... is definitely pointing a gun at Sherlock. John instinctively goes to reach for his own weapon; protective urge flaring up almost immediately.

But that quickly deflates into pure confusion, shock, and dread as his mind races into overdrive - scrambling to put a name to the fact of the cabbie. Someone he'd definitely seen before, but- ...

It clicks.

"...What the bloody hell is going on?" John whispers to himself, watching as Professor Sebastian Moran directs Sherlock inside - the pair of them disappearing into the dark, empty building.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Chapter not beta-read; will edit any mistakes I find later (it's late, and I'm simultaneously editing and working on all these last chapters). A reminder that John is now 32 and Sherlock is 23. You can prooooobably see where the fic is headed, aside from it's completion and perhaps a small epilogue. Anyway! Hope you enjoyed! The end is neigh! x


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